


New World Man

by etrix



Series: Dust Storm [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Not Related, Angels, Apocalypse, Big Bang Challenge, Blood Drinking, Confined/Caged, Demons, Drugged Sam Winchester, F/M, Foreign Language, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Language, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective John Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Supernatural and J2 Big Bang Challenge 2011, Torture, Wordcount: Over 100.000, powered Bobby Singer, powered Dean Winchester, powered John Winchester, powered Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-08
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 17:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 119,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etrix/pseuds/etrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Dust broke through it destroyed civilization: nations, cities, neighbourhoods, families, nothing was unaffected. Everyone has a theory, but no one knows anything except that the Dust is evil. However, from the depths of civilization’s collapse, one family’s destiny could save the world.</p><p>The soundtrack is available for listening here: <a>http://8tracks.com/etrix/new-world-man-st</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Mother Nature

  
  


"Faster!" Sam's voice was tight with adrenaline but steady.

"I know," Dean yelled back before resuming a continuous mutter of _c'monbabyc'mon_. He had his foot on the gas pedal and the Impala's engine was screaming, but he was driving in reverse and the Dust was gaining.

"Shit," Sam said in prayer but it hardly interrupted his casting. Jessica's voice was a light murmur as she used her own spellwords in the backseat.

"I know," Dean answered vaguely. He watched the bendy road looking for their chance. This shit wasn't supposed to happen on a main road but unfortunately it wasn't rare.

"How you doing, sweetheart?" Dean asked.

"Just peachy all things considered," was the answer from the back seat. Dean snorted because she probably wasn't even being sarcastic.

Jessica Moore was the lone survivor of the broken-down east-bound convoy they'd come across on their way to Colorado. Everyone else in the convoy had been turned into Dust Bunnies. It only took one infected person to spread the disease faster than actually bunnies could breed. When she'd seen the first signs she'd locked herself in her reinforced camper like she'd been trained, praying for rescue while expecting to die. Then the Winchesters had shown up. They'd blown away the infected humans with a precise teamwork Dean was proud of and they'd discovered pretty Jessica holed up in her camper.

Dean was always willing to rescue a pretty lady.

"Dean…" Sam urged.

Good thing Dean had insisted on stocking up their ammo instead of waiting until they reached Colorado Springs. However, aside from that piece of forethought, the rescue wasn't going very smoothly. It actually would've been easier if it had been just the two of them but it wasn't so they'd adjusted. Unfortunately, the adjustments meant they weren't as efficient and the Dust was catching up.

He needed to turn the car around.

Dean and Sam's arrival had saved her from the Bunnies but not from all danger. The ward walls protecting the highway had broken and it hadn't taken long before the Dust came hunting, sensing their living bodies, wanting to crawl inside them and turn them into breathing demon condoms—perfect for infiltrating townships and obliterating the ward walls.

Needless to say Dean wanted to avoid that outcome.

It was their bad luck they'd been facing the wrong direction when the Dust had poured into the tunnel created by the walls. Still, lying in the back seat of an old car racing away in reverse down a twisting mountain road had to be a lot better than waiting to be killed in the camper or worrying about a slow death from starvation. Maybe pretty Jessica would let the other stuff slide…

"Come on, come on." They were all whispering it, mantra and prayer, giving the power over to car and driver, needing both to get them out of this.

"Five seconds," Dean warned.

There was a wide curve up ahead, or behind—whatever—Dean could use. "Hang on," he called as he slammed on the brakes, spun the wheel and changed gears, allowing the heavy vehicle to swing her front end around with only a minor loss of speed. She groaned and whined at the maneuver but she did it and soon the engine he'd painstakingly rebuilt paid off and her whine changed back to a growl.

"That's my girl," the older hunter whispered in approval. Sam rubbed a thankful hand over her door grip still muttering his spellwords, encouraging her to go faster, to be more responsive. Essentially, he wanted her to do more than a car her size and age should be able to do and she hadn't let them down yet.

The curvy road didn't allow Dean to open her up completely so they couldn't relax, but now they were facing the right direction they were leaving the bluey-black Dust behind and that meant they had a chance to reach one of the widely-spaced sigil lines that had been laid across the road. Hopefully, unlike the ward wall, it would be intact. The car growled and ate up the road; a little loose on the corners but Dean was used to her quirks and compensated easily.

They felt it when they passed over the sigil line, a faint ringing of heavenly chorus or something. Sam said it made his veins itch but he always knew. Both his and Jessica's shoulders dropped in relief and they looked through the back window as the Dust slammed into the barrier. There was no sound, there couldn't be, but Dean felt them flinch anyway.

"We made it," Jessica whispered, still shaky but doing better with intact wards between her and the Dust.

Dean let his foot ease up a little but not much. "I'll be happier when we've got another line between us and it," Dean replied and Sam nodded. The big airhead leaned over the back of the seat and gave their passenger a crooked grin. "Considering the way my brother drives it won't be long."

If it had just been the two of them it might have been different. They might have stopped to reinforce the sigil line but they had a woman in the car with them, a very precious cargo indeed. Healthy females were too rare since the Storm for either of the Winchesters to be anything but over-protective. They didn't even have to talk to know. Whatever antics they would normally get up to on an empty road, whatever detours they'd normally take, all had to be set aside until they got Jessica someplace safe, which meant a township with double-reinforced wards and a built-in security force and not a haphazard settlement grown out of a bend in the road.

Dean caught Jessica smiling wide and bright and carefree and suddenly she wasn't merely the female person they'd rescued; she was a living, breathing human being and she was beautiful. Even sideways he could see how Sam's eyes widened in awareness; how his cheeks pinked in arousal. Huh, the older hunter thought with a smile, 'bout time Sammy got spooked.

Out loud he said "Since our trip to Colorado has been cancelled, we'd be happy to take you to Missouri's place in Lawrence. Wouldn't we, Sammy?" It was a longer trip than to Ellen's but he was sure Sam wouldn't mind. Plus Missouri's was more secure. Better choice all round.

Sam jumped in his seat, turning to face Dean with a guilty look. "Um, yeah. Sure. No problem," he stuttered.

"You'll like Missouri," Dean went on, pretending to ignore Sam's awkward blush although he knew Sam would see the teasing glint in his eye. "She's good people. You might even decide to stay."

The convoy had been headed to Washington, D.C., because Jessica wasn't only a pretty face she was an Airhead, someone who could take free-floating energy and command it using spellwords and sigils. The Feds tried to 'recruit' the best of the airheads so what was left of the government had control of them. Dean thought it was totally selfish since airheads were needed everywhere all the time.

"Really?" Jessica sounded young and uncertain. Before Dean could say anything soothing Sam rushed in to reassure her.

"Missouri's really nice," Sam said. "We visit her place lots."

"You do?" Jessica's eyes got big. She looked at Sam long and hard. She looked at Dean too but not in the same way. "Then I'm sure I'll like it there," she said to Sam, a flirty little smile on her lips.

Dean nearly laughed out loud. Sammy was so going to be toast—hot buttered and extra thick.  

  


They stuck around Lawrence longer than planned.

Outwardly, Sam hung around to work on the sigils on the surrounding farms, as it was near harvest time and nobody wanted to lose this year's crop to a Dust Storm, but truthfully he just wanted to make sure Jessica was settled and recuperating from her scare. Dean smiled at them. Happy for Sam but always willing to tease his partner, because the way she and Sam blushed and squirmed around each other, it was a safe bet the big hunter would be invited to her bed soon. It would be on a casual basis to start but maybe, one day, it would be a formal Invitation to father a child.

That was one reason.

The other was that Dean had already accepted an Invitation from one of the women staying with Missouri, and as it turned out, she was about to enter a fertile period. Since these only happened about once every three months, it made no sense to leave only to have turn around in a few days and come back.

They'd rescued Carmen from a spot north of Topeka and brought her to Missouri's over a year ago. After the demon had been exorcised she hadn't been in good shape, physically or emotionally. She hadn't known her real name or remembered any of her past but Dean hadn't cared: she was smart, she was strong; her smile was bright—when he could tease it out of her—and her eyes were gorgeous. He'd talked with her, massaged her and appreciated her, and Carmen had blossomed and healed.

The shadows had mostly left her eyes and she smiled like life was pretty good after all. Of course, her smile had a special sparkle when it was directed at the green-eyed hunter.

It had an even better sparkle when she was laid out, naked and boneless, under Dean's capable hands.

He loved seeing her like this, feeling her like this. Her skin was soft but firm over muscles that accentuated her trim build. Privately, he would admit that he preferred women who were slim and fit over those who were overly-endowed. He figured it was like preferring sleek sports cars over cushy luxury models. He could appreciate the qualities of both but graceful power got his vote every time.

He ran his hands over Carmen's legs like he was cleaning his baby's leather: taking his time, making sure to explore all the dents and crevasses so nothing was left untouched, so everything gleamed. And she did. Sweat gave her body a shine and every pant and moan let the light outline a different area, hiding the small scars and imperfections that came from living a hard life. Dean didn't care about those. He had enough scars of his own he hardly felt qualified to judge someone else on theirs. Besides, he liked Carmen. She was tough but not rigid, competent and self-assured with a hint of humor. Everything Dean liked in a person which was why he'd said yes to her Invitation. It was a matter of personal pride that, since she'd invited him into her bed, into her body and her life, he would do his absolute best for her.

It's not like it wasn't without its rewards.

She moaned as he pressed his thumbs into a tender spot, working the stiffness out, making sure the pain-tension was drained and replaced with a different kind of tension. Soon he'd have her body purring like the Impala's engine after a tune-up, making a low growl that said she'd give more—a _lot_ more—when he wanted her to. In fact, Dean had Carmen's systems running so hot all it took to push her over the first time was a two-fingered touch on her engorged clit.

"Deeeean." It was almost a protest, almost a command, but mostly a plea and it made Dean smile. Fuck, he loved this shit!

"Shhh," he soothed, "roll over."

He helped her since her muscles were climax-loose and sluggish and then he started in on her front, working his hands and mouth on the surface even as he allowed his awareness to sink deeper. Bones, tissues, organs, nerves; all were examined, assessed, cleaned and reassembled with the same care and attention he'd give to his baby's engine… except the Impala didn't squirm and wiggle and curse at him when he cleaned out _her_ hoses.

Briefly he wondered if the very human woman beneath him would be upset if she knew he was comparing her with his car. Probably, he decided, but it didn't matter and the thought drifted away.

"Shhh," he repeated, knowing it would drive Carmen nuts. "I got you, baby." He lowered his head to the dark curls at the center of her body. He breathed in the scent of her, strong and dark. They were shiny with liquids—sweat and other, more private, fluids.

"Dean, damn it," she gasped. "Stop playing around." She grabbed his head, trying to pull him up.

"Who said I'm playing?" he grinned. It was so much fun to make a controlled person lose it.

He easily resisted the pressure of her hands and dipped his head down. He gently but insistently forced her thighs further apart until he had full access to her vulnerable core. "Ah damn, Carmen," he whispered in prayer, "you're perfect." He knew she would believe him because to him, in that moment, she was. For Dean this wasn't just about the sex. It was about appreciating people and circumstances when they had the chance, and it was about being alive and healthy and _here_. They had this moment in time to be together with nothing chasing them or trying to kill them. What wasn't there to enjoy?

He tightened his hold as he plunged his tongue deep into her, making her buck and call out. He added first one finger then two to stretch and explore her. "You're so wet, Carmen," he murmured in between movements. "You'll take me easy."

It was always a concern of hers. She wasn't tiny but she _was_ picky. He knew she hadn't been with anyone since the last time he'd come through nearly two months ago. Then there was the fact he was a good half-foot taller than her and he was a bit more than proportional, if he did say so himself.

Besides, it's not like he minded taking time over this part. Each woman he'd been with had had her own unique flavor—usually creamy and rich and so unlike Sam's thick, salty taste.

He settled in to really enjoy himself but it didn't take long to bring her off the second time. He wiped his messy face on the sheet and crawled up her body, planting soft kisses and taking quick nips along the way. When he stopped moving and could look down into her golden eyes, she was barely able to focus on him.

"Finally," she said with a soft smile. She ran warm fingers over his cheek and down his neck where they tangled in the cord for his amulet. She pulled gently on it. "Scratches," she murmured, so he tossed the horned medallion over his shoulder, unwilling to remove the gift Sam had given him that long ago Christmas.

"Better?" he asked even as he lowered himself so they were chest to chest.

She hummed contentedly and wrapped her arms around him, bringing him closer. "Almost perfect." She had one leg perched high on his ass and she used it to pull him closer even as she tilted her hips to take him in. Soft, sopping-wet curls tickled his sensitive erection and it made him grunt. "You promised to massage me all over," she reminded him.

One eyebrow lifted. "So I did." He reached down, adjusting his position, and slid in sweet and easy. "Oh baby that feels good," he purred. She didn't respond verbally just gulped and bucked, which Dean figured meant she agreed.

It was a tight fit despite all the prep he'd done but he wasn't complaining. He started moving; a slow slide that let him feel everything, and it was fucking wonderful. It felt different. More intense, more meaningful, he thought, because this time they were trying to make a life: a baby. If this worked he was going to be a Sire.

_Holy crap!_ What the hell were they thinking?

He lifted himself up on one arm and ran the other one reverently over Carmen's flat stomach. Then he pushed the doubt, the awe, and everything else aside. Before she could ask him 'what the hell', he continued his stroking up over ribs to her smallish breast where he teased her already tight nipple. He curled himself over, hiding his face and whatever it might reveal, and took her puckered flesh into his mouth and played with it.

"Deeeeean!" she wailed, voice breaking as the change in position shifted his hard length inside her, hitting new areas, and he knew from her voice that he could push her over again. He smiled even as he pressed an engorged nipple against the roof of his mouth.

Was he awesome or what?  

  


The clanking of the motor drowned out the scratchy radio, which was fine by Dean since they were playing shit anyway. It also covered the sound of Sam arriving, which was an impressive feat for a Sasquatch considering the noise gravel makes when walked on. If Dean needed any more proof the conversion generator he was working on was in serious, serious need of an overhaul—or perhaps a stick of dynamite—that was it. Especially as Sam decided to poke him in the ribs when he had his oblivious head under the engine cover, which made him jump and bash his skull on it.

"Bitch!" he complained while rubbing the sore spot and getting grease in his hair, which was something else he could punish the asshat for later. When he looked up to rip Sam a new one he saw the cold bottle of beer being held in one paw-sized hand. The apology almost made up for the pain.

Dean turned off the coughing mess he'd converted from an old Slant-6 and took the beer that was brewed by the Den over on the old university grounds.

"So is Carmen pregnant?" Sam asked bluntly.

"Dude, it's only been a few hours." He could feel the heat rise in his cheeks and knew he was blushing.

"Missouri says she'll know in twenty-four."

"Yeah, since that's how long it takes sperm to travel to the egg. Don't you remember that talk, Sammy?" Dean teased because it was easier and he still felt weird about it all. "I can draw you a picture if you want."

"Are you telling me your little guys are going to stick to the speed limit?" Sam grinned at him as Dean choked and coughed beer out his nose.

"Damn it, Sam!" Dean wiped liquid off his face and tried to flick it out of his shirt. Sam laughed. The airhead rarely got the upper hand in these kinds of contests and he enjoyed it when he did: it sounded good on him. Not that Dean was going to give in so easily. He scowled ferociously at his co-pilot who merely leaned back against the wall, casually crossing his legs and making himself seem even taller.

Dean couldn't help noticing how it accentuated certain parts of Sam's anatomy. Nature had been kind to Sam, and by proxy, to Dean as well. Sense-memories flooded him: Sam's skin, Sam's taste, Sam's scent… Dean dragged his eyes up to his partner's, unwilling to let go of his righteous grievance, only to see Sam watching him with a glint in his hazel eyes.

The little bitch had known what he was doing when he took up the pose.

Before Dean could take him up on the offer—or punch him in the mouth for making him spew his beer—Sam started talking. "Seriously, will you know? I mean, you will be sure before then?"

It was as close as they ever came to talking about Dean's talent in the open, and even though Sam hadn't said anything specific, he couldn't resist taking a quick look around to make sure it was safe.

Like their father, the older Winchester was known as a Tinman; good with weapons and his hands, able to fight and repair machines, design and build physical stuff—it's what tinmen _did_. They weren't supposed to be able to sense clogged hoses in engines or clogged arteries in people. Not without some seriously specialized Healer training. It had something to do with 'auras' and 'personal boundaries' and some other new-age woo-woo shit Dean hadn't listened to when Jim Murphy had explained it. What it meant was that, when he wanted to, Dean could read that stuff about as easily as other people read books; no permission, special training or 'psychic awareness' required.

It had made his Dad and Pastor Jim worry though.

They'd discovered his ability when fourteen-year old Dean had given his step-dad a back-rub. Jim had been feeling poorly for a while. A nasty cold they'd thought; one that had settled into his chest and was getting worse. His dad's back-rubs had been helping, but that night John had fucked up his hand on a hunt and Sam had been sleeping off the adrenaline crash. So Dean, half asleep himself, had done the back-rub because he'd been worried and it was Pastor Jim who'd stayed up with him through colds and nightmares and puberty alike.

Dean hadn't been at it long before he'd picked up the sensation of liquids in the older man's chest. When he'd told John, his father had frowned in disbelief but Dean had insisted Jim's chest "didn't feel right", that it felt "all gurgle-y".

Since gurgles sounded like pneumonia, rather than a cold, John had packed everyone up and they'd headed down the road to the nearest township with a Treatment Centre. Dean had spent the trip in a fog, muttering nonsense and absently tracing patterns only he could see on the Pastor's back. Both John and Sam had left him to it, unwilling to disturb Dean's near-trance state. When they'd reached the center the healers had confirmed it was pneumonia. They'd also said Jim was lucky it had only been a day or two since the infection had set in, since full-blown pneumonia was particularly hard to treat without antibiotics and they didn't have any at the moment.

John had nodded and kept silent about the fact it had been nearer a week that Jim had been wheezing like a man being choked.

They'd stayed in the township while Jim got treated and healed and they never, ever, told anyone what Dean could do. The Winchesters hadn't needed that kind of attention, not for any member of their family, so they'd only spoken of it in private or obliquely. If they talked about it at all.

That habit of caution still existed. That's why Sam had dropped his voice and Dean had shifted a step closer in an attempt to keep their conversation private yet not suspicious.

However, Sam _had_ asked and Dean would answer because, if anyone had a right to know what Dean could pick-up, it was his co-pilot and partner.

With a shrug, Dean settled in next to Sam, shoulders barely brushing, so he could say very quietly, "I'll be pretty sure, like ninety percent sure." Saying it felt like bragging.

He'd tried explaining it to Sam once figuring he'd understand energy conduits and patterns and all that stuff since the guy was a kick-ass airhead. After all, airheads took energy or manna, or whatever they called it, out of the atmosphere and made it do what they wanted using spellwords and sigils—essentially just moving energy around. Simple, right? Dean didn't know what was so different about doing the same thing to a person, which was just a bio-organic machine—an incredibly complex, bewildering and fascinating machine—but still a machine needing fuel, which it converted to energy which it then used to move itself.

Sam had understood the theory but he'd never managed to take it any further, not on machines and not on people. Dean knew he still tried occasionally but thought it was no big deal if Sam never got it. The younger Winchester produced the most powerful protective sigils most people had ever seen. Did he need to do anything more?

Well, he was also hot, but that was just a bonus.

The scratchy radio played something decent as the pair drank their beers in lazy contentment. The radio, like the TV and the internet, came in sporadically for the most part. Transmissions caught by an array of satellite dishes placed on some of the higher buildings still standing, trying to pull a clear signal through the demonic Dust and regular dust and plain old ions that could interfere. It was no wonder they relied on VHS and cassettes for their entertainment.

On the plus side, the sunsets were spectacular. As were the sunrises. And they had the most brilliant Northern Lights…

"Is it different?" Sam asked finally, breaking the quiet between them. Dean raised a brow. "Knowing you're, you know, doing it to make a baby. Is it different?"

Dean shifted uncomfortably, "It's not like it's my first time siring a kid."

"Ben doesn't count."

"He totally does."

"He was an accident," Sam argued. "A result of 'Oh my God, I can't believe we survived' adrenaline sex not a formal Invitation."

"Like you don't worry about him and brag about him to everyone. _Dad_ ," Dean countered.

They'd both been there when the Cicero wards had fallen and they'd both helped in the defense, holding back the Dust, fighting the Dust Bunnies, doing everything they could to be heroes and save the township. Lisa Braeden had been right there beside them using her hard-learned talent to write sigils almost as good as a natural airhead's. It had taken twenty-seven straight hours before the all-clear was blown. Then all three of them had fallen onto the nearest flat surface, exhausted, but they'd been young, too excited and too relieved to actually _sleep_ —at least not for long. Sometime in those long lazy hours—the first and only time the Winchesters had shared a bed partner—Ben had been conceived. Since she couldn't know which of them had sired her son, Lisa had put them both on the registration.

Dean knew Sam carried a photo of Ben. Everyone knew because he would take it out and touch it when he thought no one was looking. Dean understood that. He knew he got a goofy grin on his face when he thought of the dark-haired boy that called them "Dad".

"Yeah, it's different," he finally said, taking a long drink. "More… I dunno, impactful or something. I mean, it's a kid: a permanent connection to a person, a place." They'd always have a home in a den where they'd Sired a child. Not that Missouri's wasn't already one of their regular stops, but still… It was different.

"Do you ever think what our lives would be like if the Storm hadn't occurred?" Sam asked. "What the world would be like?"

Dean shrugged. He wasn't much for what ifs.

Sam got excited by it though. "You'd probably be married with, like, six kids and working some regular job," he said. "I'd maybe be in college taking ancient languages or something like that."

With a resigned sigh, Dean got into the spirit of it. "When we got hungry we'd run down to the corner deli for sandwiches. Or maybe go to one of those fast food places they advertise on TV."

"We wouldn't be riding around in the Impala, killing monsters or protecting the world." Sam laughed, shaking his head, unable to picture that life.

"We probably wouldn't know each other at all," Dean countered and it stopped Sam's laughter cold because Dean was right. The only reason they knew each other the way they did was because of the cataclysm that had changed the world.

Sam was quiet for a moment, picking at the label on his beer, before he finally asked "It's about me, isn't it?"

"Sam—"

Sam cut him off, "You heard what that Bunny said."

"Hello boys," interrupted a man from the doorway. "It's been a while."

"Henrikson," Dean said in recognition. The newcomer smiled and stepped into the workshop as if he owned it. His partner Reidy trailed behind him like a pale shadow, always there but never noticed.

Black, bald, and badass, Victor Henrikson was a confident man. He wore a suit and tie, of all things, in the middle of the Lawrence Township in the middle of freaking summer. He didn't need a badge to tell everyone he was Homeland Security; he embodied the concept. To him, like most Homies, being a Fed wasn't merely a job, it was practically a religion, and the paradise they were working toward was the restoration of America to the Way It Was Before: before the Storm invaded their world, before madness and disease decimated the population, before Dust made nearly two thirds of the continental US uninhabitable. The Homies wanted the world to magically return to 1983 and wouldn't believe it would never happen, and like all True Believers, they didn't like people who told them it would never happen.

Hunters often told them it would never happen, but the Feds needed the hunters far more than the hunters needed the Feds, so the relationship between the two groups was always like porcupines and hedgehogs trying to occupy the same space.

"Hey, G-man," Dean responded cordially enough because, in another life, he could've liked the guy.

Henrikson didn't even smile. "You think you're funny?" Dean blinked, taken aback at the agent's reaction. G-man was a pretty frigging mild nickname for the Homies.

"I think I'm adorable," he replied aggressively.

Sam held up his hands to stop the verbal sparring before it started. "Seriously, Henrikson, what are you doing out here? We heard the road to Colorado's been cleaned."

"Maintaining the peace?"

It was a joke, a poor one, because Homeland Security was a catch-all department that did everything from looking for terrorists to maintaining the roads, but it did _not_ get involved in basic law enforcement. That was left to the State government, when there was one. Out here in the Midwest the population was now so small, and there were so few safe areas with only one or two roads connecting them to each other, that bad guys had no place to hide. When a problem came up a township or settlement's civil security force couldn't handle they asked for hunters, and hunters, as they had done in secret for centuries, answered the call to protect the civilians from the monsters no matter what their DNA.

Knowing that, Dean looked at the older man and didn't respond to the weak joke. He took another swallow of his beer instead since there was no point in letting it get warm. Beside him Sam crossed his arms and waited for the agent's real answer as well.

A smirk acknowledged the tactic. "I'm recruiting for a job. There are reports of survivors in a camp in Oklahoma."

"There are always reports of a small camp of survivors."

"And they're mostly bogus," Dean added.

Sam nodded in agreement. "What makes the Feds think this one is real?"

Victor's smirk didn't alter. "We have our sources."

The agent's caution was annoying but Dean knew why he didn't say anything more. If humans _had_ survived in an unprotected town in an active Dust zone for over twenty years then they were either demons or they had some mad air skills. The Feds would kill the demons (denying all the while that demons even existed), take the best airheads back to Washington (whether or not they wanted to go), and leave the rest behind to figure out their new, larger world on their own. To be fair, the Homies usually paved and warded the road so the remaining survivors could stay in their homes and be shell-shocked there. It would be up to the hunters and the townships to heal the survivors and teach them how things worked in the wider America: communications, mutual protections, tourists—all things that could overwhelm a previously isolated community and cause them to retreat back behind their walls.

Sam looked at Dean and raised an eyebrow. Dean shook his head slightly in reply.

"Not interested," the younger hunter responded for both of them.

"I would've thought it would be right up your alley," the agent said, still smirking. "You like to kill things; we have things to kill. We'll even pay you like the honest, self-serving citizens you are."

And that, right there, was one of the reasons Dean didn't like the Homies: sanctimonious, self-righteous pricks…

"Sorry, we have a previous engagement." If Henrikson wouldn't keep his tone civil then neither would Dean.

"Oh yeah, I heard about that at the diner." Henrikson stepped closer to the older Winchester, putting himself almost in the hunter's lap. "Heard how one of Missouri's ladies invited you to father a child. Pretty big honor for someone like you," he paused and Dean got ready for the dig. "After all, you're a tinman, a good one, but still just a tinman. Now, if she'd invited your brother…"

"Her choice," Dean replied calmly enough, only the narrow-eyed glare gave away his anger. "I don't know how you do it back east, but out here a woman has the right to choose who she wants to breed with."

He refused to look away or to blink. He refused to lose this argument to a fucking _Homie_.

Henrikson didn't blink either. "You think that's better? No planning, no forethought, just blind luck as to what traits get passed on?" he asked. "The human race will _die_ if we don't have people with the skills we need to survive in this brave new world, and you want to leave it all up to hormones, or pheromones, or some damn thing?"

Dean didn't bother to straighten but his eyes turned flint-hard. "I'm thinking that if we're not allowed free will in this then we're no better than the Soviets were or the Nazis. Governments are supposed to serve the people, not people serve the government. Isn't that what the Declaration said?"

"Close enough," Sam answered. Sam's hand was white-knuckled on the beer bottle he wanted to hit the agent so badly. Instead he leaned a little closer to Dean, giving him what support he could without giving anything else away.

Henrikson's teeth flashed white against his dark skin. "You don't trust us to know what's best in the long term, do you?"

"I don't trust anyone to know what's best for me."

"Not even your dad?"

Dean knew his father's reputation was odd. Even among other hunters his theories were considered out there; didn't mean he was wrong though. "You don't know crap about my dad so just drop it." He glared at the older man.

Henrikson didn't leave it, of course. "All you Badlands Hunters are unbalanced—psychotic and paranoid doesn't even begin to describe it—but your daddy takes it to a whole 'nother level doesn't he? Heaven and Hell duking it out on Earth when the Storm was just," he shrugged, "one of those things."

Dean wanted to hit him. Why was Dad's theory any crazier than giant asteroids or melting ice caps? Looking into Henrikson's smug face, Dean decided he was going to hit him—the fall-out would be worth the satisfaction. Sam stopped him by raising his hand. Just that one gesture and Dean stepped back, looking away from the agent and letting his co-pilot take over the conversation for a while.

"I think we're done here," Sam suggested firmly. "I saw some guys over at the bar. Maybe they'd be interested in the job. Why don't you try there?" It was the kind of polite 'fuck off' Sam excelled at.

"Maybe next time," Henrikson looked straight at Dean and didn't mean the road clearance job. He'd nearly made the older Winchester take a swing at him which would have hurt but it would've been worth it so he could give the cocky little shit the beat down he deserved. Then he could've arrested him and that would've left the younger one isolated just as the Deputy Director wanted.

Well, the agent reconsidered, as isolated as these hunters ever got.

None of his thoughts were reflected on his face. "C'mon, Reidy." He gathered up his partner and left the shed.

Dean didn't even wait until he was out of earshot before muttering curses. Sam let him rant.

"Fucking asshole," Dean finally stopped, standing in the doorway and staring at the spot Henrikson had occupied as if he could shoot retroactive lasers at the man. He spun and faced his partner. "I get he doesn't think much of hunters in general, but with me, it's like it's personal somehow. What the hell did I ever do to him?"

"Aside from insulting and mocking him?" Dean smiled at Sam's dry comment; he liked insulting the condescending bastard. "You make fun of what he believes in, Dean. Most people don't like that."

"Yeah, but he believes shit."

" _You_ think it's shit. He thinks it's the only option America has." Sam stopped and picked at the label on his beer and Dean braced for whatever he was going to say next. "What if he's right? What if his way would lead to a better life, a more normal life, for all of us?"

"This is normal," Dean scowled.

"It is for us _here_ ," Sam argued, "but it's different on the coasts. A lot of those cities survived mostly intact. More people, more safe zones." Dean was already shaking his head so Sam made his voice stronger. "The way east is pretty safe. We could spend some time there; do something different, something safer."

"I'm not going east, dude. I'm not working with pricks like Henrikson who sneer at us because we live differently than they think we should."

"We wouldn't have to join the government. There are other places that want us," he trailed off, unwilling to continue because it was kind of embarrassing.

Dean had no such hesitation. "You mean they want _you_ to breed little wonder babies with miraculous airbending abilities." Sam's jaw flexed as he ground his teeth a little. He wouldn't look at his brother because he knew Dean was right… at least a little.

"They'd want you too, Dean. You're the best tinman there is and if they knew—"

"No," Dean cut him off. "Just no. I'm sorry Sam; the world isn't ever going to be like those shows on TV, not ever again. Dust is everywhere; in the big cities back east, even across the oceans, and where ever _it_ is there'll be monsters. Those cities, they got lots of people working for them, protecting them. What do these people got?" He waved his hand slightly, indicating the Lawrence Township and the whole decimated Midwest. "They only got us, people like us… and it's worthwhile, right? Saving people, hunting things?"

Sam's argument collapsed. They were doing good work here—important work—and he knew it. "It's just sometimes I'd like it to be different, y'know?"

Dean threaded a finger through a belt loop and gave it a little tug. It was as close as he ever came to showing affection in public. "Different isn't always better." Another quick tug then Dean backed away.

Sam could agree with him, see his point, but still… How could they know if it was better or worse until they'd experienced it? He closed his eyes feeling tired emotionally, tired of having the same old arguments over the same old things. So he backed away from the subject. "I'm going to go out with the Civil Defense guys to check the wards on the north farms," he said.

"Anything specific?" The older Winchester looked up at him, sudden concern and curiosity on his face making it light up from the inside.

Shit, Sam thought as he often did, Dean was a handsome bastard. He ignored the thought as he shook his head. "Nah. Mike wanted someone to check the placeholders 'just in case' and since I'm here…"

"…might as well pitch in." Dean nodded acceptance. It was a basic code for hunters in this part of the world. Lots of places wouldn't charge them for their supplies so in return tinmen maintained the equipment and airheads walked the wards.

Bet they didn't do that back in Washington or Baltimore or where-the-fuck-ever back east, Dean thought viciously.

"Be careful anyway," he ordered, knowing even as he said it that it came out sounding far too condescending.

"You're about sixty times more likely to be hurt doing engine repairs than I am in a field full of armed guards and airheads."

"Geek," Dean threw back at him but he was smiling because Sam had to have pulled that statistic out of his ass. He was relieved when his partner smiled back.

"Jerk," Sam said and all was right in the world once again.  

  


_It was their bad luck they'd been facing the wrong direction when the Dust had poured into the tunnel created by the walls._


	2. New Mother Nature

  


  
Dean worked on the generator the rest of the morning. It had so many problems he felt embarrassed for his younger self. It may have been the first convertor he'd designed but it was crap.

At its base magic, the magic airheads used to give their spellwords power, was just free-floating energy. Physicists had already discovered that energy was impossible to destroy; it could be altered, moved, converted and harnessed, but never destroyed. Dust Bunnies disappeared when the infection ran its course, but they didn't just go into a void. Their bodies broke down and returned to being energy without the intervening decaying corpse stage that every other living thing had to go through. That energy, since it wasn't needed as a human being anymore, floated around the world available for anyone or anything to use. Airheads pulled that energy from the atmosphere then they repurposed it with sigils and released it back into the world with their spellwords. Once its current purpose was complete, it dispersed and went back to being random energy floating around, waiting to be used.

Convertor-generators did the same thing as airheads but within very limited parameters. They pulled the free-floating energy from the atmosphere and used it to generate electricity.

Dean had been fascinated by the theory when he'd read it in a battered old Scientific American. He'd had a few magazines to give him ideas but there weren't any blueprints out there because the world had barely adjusted to everything that had happened and all that had changed, so he'd doodled and designed, built and fiddled but in the end, like the healing he'd done on Jim all those years ago, Dean had essentially felt his way into figuring out how to make the machine do what he wanted.

Back then, and even now, the academics and theorists felt more comfortable calling magic a science. Last Dean had heard, they still hadn't decided on a name for it. Institutions called it ether-physics or etherdynamics—fucking _awful_ names Dean thought. Most real people called it airbending which made it sound like a craft or an art-form, which it kinda was because no two people did it the same way or had the same results. It also sounded way cooler than 'ethernautics', which was the other label the scientists were trying to throw on it.

Whatever.

Nobody actually knew why certain people could tap easily into the energy, why some had to work at it, and why others never managed to sense it at all. Some said genetics. Even chemical imbalances had been argued. Dean didn't care. As long as it did what he wanted they could call it bullshit and he wouldn't give a damn what some jumped-up lab guys called it in Massachusetts. It wasn't his concern. What _was_ his concern, however, was this _one_ machine that had this _one_ ability and wasn't even doing that right.

It occurred to him, as his hands moved sure and confident through the guts of the machine, that his first ever convertor was like a B-list starlet: she looked pretty and did essentially nothing, and like that B-lister, not even plastic surgery was going to help her get better at her job. He'd given Missouri a list of parts he'd need in order to build her a better convertor. One that would generate twice the amount of power yet be three times as dependable. Ash had helped him with the design (and registered the patent) and no matter what you thought of the hair, the guy was an engineering genius. But for now his aging starlet was all the Den Mother had.

He worked quietly and steadily since all he could do was clean and check parts for damage. It didn't require much brain power, which meant lots of time to think about what Sam had said about wanting normal.

Sam had never experienced 'normal'.

In 1983 the Winchesters had been what they used to call a nuclear family; mom, dad, two kids. It had been stable, typical, expected. Then the Storm hit. Fires popped up throughout the country, some big—city destroying big—but most small—burning individual houses with illogical abandon. The Winchester's home in Lawrence had been one of those houses. When they'd made it out to the street, they were faced with madness: neighbor fighting neighbor, families killing each other. It was a riot without a cause.

One in every ten American had died in the first week. Thirty million people wiped off the map. Same thing in South America and Europe. Almost as bad in the rest of the world.

In the week following the Storm, disease swept through the people who were left and weird ones nobody had ever heard of, or odd amalgams of old ones. Then the Dust moved in, rippling across the landscape in waves, and where it went people turned murderous, going on rampages until they keeled over and their bodies dissolved into air. Hunters called those infected with the virus Dust Bunnies, because it was cute and because they spread the disease as fast as real rabbits had babies. Dust Bunnies took that first thirty million and doubled it then redoubled it, infecting dozens of healthy people with their disease before… disappearing.

Six months after the Storm and the healthy population of the United States was barely _one half_ of what it had been.

Unsurprisingly, most of the remaining population clung to the coasts and the big cities where there were still active ports and manufactured goods still moved in and out of the country. They tried to pretend things hadn't really changed or that it would soon go back to what it had been. There was a government, of sorts. There was an entertainment industry, kind of. There was culture and trade and professional sports that all clung to the past with their fingertips because, as much as they tried to deny it, to say it would go away, the Dust still swirled. Its inky-blue smoke ran through cities and farms alike and people touched by it changed into monsters out of horror stories and myths.

Still, even in the decimated Midwest, pockets of safety existed. They usually centered around the people who'd believed in all that hippie new-age Aquarian stuff and had put up spiritual protections. The other group who'd carved out safe zones called themselves hunters. They'd brought out the salt and the holy water, the iron knives and the consecrated rounds, and they'd killed the monsters when the National Guard and the police couldn't.

End result? People finally believed there were more things in Heaven and Earth—and Hell too—than were dreamt of in their philosophies and normal—old normal—went out the window.

Dean remembered a little of his life before the Storm. There'd been pancakes for breakfast and PB&J with the crusts cut off for lunch, but Sam had been just a baby so what he thought was normal was only what he saw on TV, which was mostly reruns of shows from the 60's and 70's. So many people everywhere, staying in one place collecting stuff. To Dean it was plain weird—a world as alien as any ever shown on Star Trek.

Of course, there were new shows being produced on the coasts that were just as unreal. There was one Dean had caught a couple times where all the main characters, and there were about seven of them, spent all their time in a coffee shop having lattes—whatever the hell those were. None of them carried holy water or silver weapons. They didn't even carry salt!

How the hell could Sam think that was normal?

It wasn't what the world was anymore, not for them, not for anyone. _This_ was normal. This, looking out over a township full of ruined buildings and small gardens to where the wards kept out the inky cloud. Watching the individual streamers swirl and twist along the barrier as if seeking a way in before it rejoined the larger cloud and the whole thing moved on down the road. Normal was taking an afternoon to walk the ward walls, checking the sigils and the anchor stones for wear. Normal was what Henrikson was doing: gathering up a crew to go out and brave the Opens to see if there were humans left alive in there because the world needed all the unaltered humans it could find.

Okay, maybe someplace back east there was enough people and big enough safe zones they could have cafés and delis like the ones they showed on TV. Places where everyone tried to pretend the world was going to get back to what it was before the Storm, but how was that more normal than what they had here? Here they had friends and family and a routine that worked for them. Their future was _here_.

His hands stilled and his breath caught. _He was going to be a Dad._

Deep breath… He could do it; he'd be a good father. Pastor Jim had always said so. Sam believed in him. And okay, John Winchester had taken off and didn't want to be found, but if he were here, he would be encouraging too. His dad would send a message when he found out Dean's news. It was a big deal out here, being asked to become a father. Surely his old man would be proud?

Dean sighed and dropped the wrench back on the work table. Truth was he had no fucking clue what his dad was up to or where he was. He didn't believe John Winchester would call with an update or even to make sure they were alright. Ever since Pastor Jim had been killed, Dad hadn't been the same.

Dad had seen the guy, or sort of seen him, standing in the room while Jim had bled to death on the ceiling. Dad said he was all dark, like the stranger _was_ a shadow and not merely hiding in it. The only thing that had stood out was the glowing yellow eyes as it had grinned at John. Dad shot at him but he'd vanished. Then the room had burst into flames and Dad had been forced out of room just like with Mom.

The yellow-eyes meant Jim's killer was a monster, and the blue-black smoke said demon, but it had been inside the township's ward walls, which meant it had to have moved over the sigil lines without disturbing the anchor stones or being trapped. And that should've been impossible.

When the sigils for the warding were being designed, it was assumed they'd fail at least occasionally so a two-line defense was only logical. The spell had been specifically engineered to capture creatures that got past the first wall. And the spell worked. At least they'd always assumed it worked. What if it didn't? What if lots of demons were inside, pretending to be human and working toward some evil purpose nobody knew about? What if that's what the Storm had been for: to create a new future?

Jim had believed it was Biblical—the apocalypse out of Revelations or something—but Jim had been trained as a preacher so of course he'd see the Storm in the Bible and maybe it's why Dad believed it too. After all, they'd been together over fifteen years. They'd discussed it—fuck, had they discussed it—but they couldn't know. It was as plausible as all the bullshit stories the authorities had come up with so he'd always backed his dad up when people laughed at his theories about the cause of the Storm.

Privately Dean was skeptical. From what Dean remembered of Jim's teachings the apocalypse would be random—widespread, but random. Heaven and Hell fighting over the world and people getting caught in the cross-fire and getting hurt. They didn't get targeted by yellow-eyed bad-guys who vanished into smoke when shot at.

Still, ever since Dad had told him about Jim's death Dean had been thinking about it, letting ideas and theories stew in the back of his mind. How could Dean protect the people he cared about against something that looked human?

What kind of world would his kid grow up in if Dad was right?

  


  
When Dean broke for supper Sam still wasn't back from the fields. Which fucking _sucked_ because it meant Dean couldn't break out of the melancholy gripping him. Past and present and future all winding around in his brain making it hurt. Maybe he should've gone down to Missouri's instead. But the diner was more private because Missouri couldn't read his mind from here (he'd checked it out once to be sure). Still, he could've used some company…

"Hello Dean."

And he should learn to be more specific when he wished for things.

"Henrikson, you're still here." His voice was flat, uninviting. Henrikson sat anyway.

"I couldn't leave without saying good-bye," the agent smiled. The smile didn't go any further than teeth and suddenly Dean had had enough; enough of the jibes, the pussy-footing, and more than enough of the contempt.

"I don't get you, Henrikson," he said. "I've never done anything to you, never worked against the Homies. I go out there, fight monsters, fix the ward walls, help people survive, and all you do is sneer."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot. You're fighting the Apocalypse," Victor's voice was over-loaded with skepticism.

"And axis shift due to polar ice melt is such a better theory," Dean snorted his opinion of the government's latest explanation. "It's just as silly as Soviet attack, meteor strike or 'The Big One'. Even alien attack is better than polar ice melt."

Victor was already shaking his head. "Sorry Dean. Truth is, your daddy brainwashed you with all his devil talk and no doubt touched you in a bad place. That's all. That's reality."

"You know nothing about my father." Dean's jaw was clenched and his hand tightened on his knife. There were severe penalties for attacking a federal agent, Dean reminded himself, _harsh_ penalties he really didn't feel like living through.

"I know he taught you well: look after your brother, protect him at all costs and don't let him go." Victor tipped his head. "Do you realize how unique your brother is, how powerful? And he's out there walking the back-90 like a plain old ward walker."

"There's nothing wrong with that," Dean ground out. "It's honest work."

Victor tsk'ed. "He's more than a normal airhead and you know it."

"What does Dean know?" Sam asked before seating himself. He nodded his order at the boy behind the counter. He had the same thing every day so he didn't even have to say it out loud anymore.

"I'm holding you back, Sammy." Dean growled. Even though he was sure there was more to the agent's comments, this wasn't the place to get into a discussion about it.

Victor nodded at Sam and followed Dean's lead; it wasn't far from the truth. "I want to renew the government's offer to have you come back to Washington. We'll give you a house, a car, a salary—"

"—a tube you can donate your sperm in," Dean interrupted. Victor ignored him.

"You'll be doing essentially the same thing you're doing now but more efficiently and with a higher purpose. It's a good offer." The agent's smile was bright, bright, bright against his dark skin.

Sam's smile barely lifted a lip. "What about Dean?"

"He's a big boy. He can take care of himself."

"What about Dad and the rest of my family? What about my friends?" Sam kept talking. "The Feds, they get out to the Midwest what? Once every couple months? What about all the people out here I help _every day_?"

Victor was shaking his head. "There are lots of hunters—"

"Not like me. That's what you mean when you say the Feds want me back in Washington: that I'm special?" Sam tipped his head and looked at the agent as if he were a bug. "Hunters respond instantly when shit goes down. Bunnies invade and it's intense, it's dangerous, and sometimes, it's overwhelming and we barely escape alive. If I go with you then the next time a ward wall breaks, I'd be safe in Washington while people out here could be dying. People I know." He pushed out his lower jaw, "That's not going to happen."

Henrikson's mouth lifted; it wasn't a smile and it wasn't his usual smirk, but something in between. "Well. You know how to find us if you change your mind." Without another word the agent stood and left the diner. The Winchesters watched him go.

"That's seriously scary, dude." Dean's food was cold but he was eating it anyway—no need for it to go to waste. "I'm starting to wonder if we should worry about them kidnapping you or arresting you on some trumped up charge."

The server came over with Sam's order so he waited until the boy left before responding. "I don't like being singled out like this, Dean."

"I know," the older hunter murmured, his mind still caught up in how much danger Sam could be in, assessing the possibility the Feds knew the truth. Unfortunately, it was entirely possible.

"It makes me feel like a freak."

"Well that's 'cause you are a freak," Dean said before his mind kicked in and he knew he'd made a mistake. Sam didn't like being different and he knew it. Telling his co-pilot he was a freak was a little tactless, even for him.

Sure enough, Sam glared at him. "Yeah, thanks," he said sarcastically.

Dean reached over, slapped Sam's arm and smiled uncertainly, "Well, I'm a freak too. I'm right there with you…all the way."

After a pause Sam chuckled. "Yeah, I know you are," he agreed. Then he dug into his salad and Dean knew he was forgiven.

"So how's the work out in the field going?" he asked because ward walking was a good unemotional topic.

"Both slower and quicker than I thought," Sam answered looking over his shoulder towards the door.

"How's that possible?"

Sam looked at his brother and gave a small smile, "It's slower because the wards are in worse shape than they should be. The sigils are worn down way more than expected and the anchor stones are more corroded. They're only four years old and they look like it's been a decade."

"What the hell?" Dean frowned. "They're not near the road, are they?" Traffic could wear down the anchor stones—warded vehicles passing close by caused them to vibrate which disturbed the markings—but Sam shook his head. "Animals?" Wildlife—natural wildlife—hitting the stones and shifting them was the other most common way anchor stones wore out early.

Again Sam shook his head. "The anchors were buried so the weather wouldn't disturb them. In fact, small tornados probably couldn't shift them."

"That's fricking weird, man." Weird was not good, not in Dean's world.

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Mike can't figure it out either. There's no sign of any physical damage but something's weakening them. The only thing out of the ordinary is the number of Dust Storms this year—nearly twice the average."

"Huh," was Dean's only comment but he filed the information away with the other bits of oddities he'd heard lately. They weren't adding up to anything but maybe one day… "What's the good news?"

"I wasn't the only decent airhead walking." Sam waved over at the doorway, inviting a couple of newcomers over to their table. "They showed up halfway through the afternoon."

This time Dean's smile was genuine. "Hey Demian. Barnes." He leaned over and snagged a chair from the next table. "Take a load off."

Demian's greeting was big and filled up all the empty space in the large room. It matched his personality and his build. His partner, Barnes, was the opposite. Taller by more than a foot, skinnier by twice that, his voice was small and a little nasal, but they'd been a team for long time and were considered two of the best walkers in the Midwest. Other people called them hunters, but they didn't call themselves that since they didn't like danger, not serious danger. They never cleared roads or opened new areas for settlement but they could assess and reinforce established sigils lines like nobody's business.

"Dean, I heard about the Invite!" Demian thumped his arm, "Congrats, man!"

Barnes nodded in agreement. "She made a good choice."

Dean couldn't help it; he blushed. Their words were honest and genuine and open, and the complete opposite of Henrikson when he'd said the same thing. "Thanks," Dean mumbled before quickly changing the subject. "What's this about the anchor stones failing?"

They ordered a pitcher of beer and soon they were immersed in theories and remedies which lasted until the street was growing dark. Conversation then passed from anchor stones and ward walls, to odd news and new jokes, and finally to reminiscences of jobs they'd teamed up on: most good, some bad. Sam's face lost the crunchy brow it had carried for weeks and his gorgeous smile lit up the room.

It was the most relaxed evening they'd had since Dad had taken off and Dean didn't want it to end.

  


  
That night Dean ran his hands over Carmen's body, enjoying the slick and slide of her skin, and he knew. He could feel the change in her rhythm, her energies concentrating and jumping up a notch.

They'd started a baby…

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.

It wasn't much right now, more of a possibility than an actual person, but it would turn into a human being with needs and opinions and a future unless something happened along the way to stop the process which was all too possible. Still, it was a baby and part of it was his. He couldn't wrap his mind around it. Not his mind, not his heart, not even his lungs, and he sure as shit couldn't fucking _move_.

"Dean," she asked concerned. "What is it?"

He wanted to tell her, wanted to announce what they'd done in a burst of awe and fear and pride. He looked into her soft brown eyes, the news right there on his tongue, and stopped. He couldn't tell her. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't because then she'd ask _how_ he knew and the truth was too dangerous: for him, for her, for their kid whenever it was born.

Tinmen didn't have air bending powers. End of story.

"It's just…" he thought quickly "It struck me. We're trying to make a baby, a little _person_. It's… amazing."

She chuckled. "If you and your brother are anything to go by, it won't be so little."

He smiled back then bent down for a long, soft kiss before pulling away and gazing down at his hand, resting on the flat surface of her belly, aware of the activity below the skin. "As long as it's a boy or a girl I'll be happy," he said. "My mom used to say that when she was pregnant with my brother."

She covered his hand with her own. "I like it," she said quietly.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. Great, he'd completely killed the mood. He'd have to work hard to bring it back. He ran his hands over strong, smooth thighs. He breathed in her rich arousal.

Good thing he was a hard worker. 

  


  
The next morning, as expected, Missouri announced Carmen's pregnancy. She did it in the dining room over breakfast and it instantly turned the meal into a celebration with squealing and jumping and hugs and shit. Dean ducked out as soon as he could, hoping he'd stayed long enough not to hurt Missouri's feelings. He needn't have bothered; she caught him at the dining room door.

"Dean Winchester, are you sneakin' out on you' own party?" She frowned at him and he couldn't help but flinch a little. She was small but fierce and sometimes? She scared the crap out of him with her whole psychic 'read your mind' thing.

"Ahhh," Dean's mind went blank like it always did around Missouri… well not _blank_ exactly, but he could rarely get it out of his mouth. Didn't matter; Missouri already knew what he was trying to say.

"You are such a liar."

"I don't lie to you," he defended himself.

"Because you can't get away with it. Otherwise you'd try." She smiled and placed a comforting hand on his arm. "You're an attention hound when it don' matter but as soon as people wanna congratulate you or thank you or try an' make you feel special, you run away like a rabbit afraid of a skinnin'."

"That's very, um, graphic." Dean shifted his shoulders like he could feel the knife.

"You should let them coo at you," she told him. "All it means is they like you."

He'd rather be dragged naked behind the Impala.

She smiled at him again, wrapping her arm around his and pulling him through the door and into the empty hall beyond. "You know, the women talk, discuss who's gonna be a Daddy an' who's just a Sire. You understan' the difference?"

"Um." He shrugged, "All guys are Sires, aren't they? I mean, like horse breeding; we're chosen for abilities we might pass on to our kids."

She shook her head. "When women talk of Sires they mean men who will show up, do the job an' never be heard from again… most of the time that's a good thing too," she added with a huff. "Daddies are the ones the women want to have aroun' in their kids' lives, an' in theirs."

Dean could sense where this was going and he resisted the urge to squirm like a little kid.

"Always uncomfortable with praise," she teased. "You an' your brother are both in the 'daddy' column, if you hadn't already guessed."

Yeah, that's what he thought she was going to say. Although he was glad to know Sam was considered a good guy. If anyone deserved to be a Dad—

Missouri stopped and cuffed him on the back of the head. "You deserve it too, Dean Winchester." She glared at him a moment to emphasize her point before continuing down the hall. "You know what they say about you?"

"Actually I'd rather not know I think." He thought for a moment and then nodded his head quickly. "Yeah, I don't want to know."

She ignored him. "They talk about your massages as if they're a slice of heaven come down to earth. They say, whether or not you're gettin' sex out of the deal, you always take the same amount of care with them an' they always feel a hundred times better than when you started."

Dean could feel the blush, heat enough to roast a marshmallow off his cheeks. "I like making them feel good."

"But it's more than that, isn't it Dean," her voice was quiet. "When Carmen first arrived here, the demon had messed her up bad. The healers said she'd never have children. Now here she is two years later strong, healthy and pregnant."

"Missouri…" Dean started to protest because he really, really couldn't talk about this but anything he thought to say would only lead to more questions about more stuff he couldn't talk about.

He didn't have to say anything. Missouri patted his arm and gave him a soft smile. "You keep so many secrets for so many people; I'll keep this one for you. You know I'm good at keepin' secrets." And Dean _did_ know that. As a psychic—an honest-to-God, mind-reading psychic—Missouri probably knew more secrets than Homeland Security.

She chuckled. "I 'spect mine are more fun. Small towns are better for secrets than any of them daytime dramas they broadcast." She gave his arm a final pat. They were at the front door of her den and she was letting him escape. "You go out an' fix that convertor you built, an' when it purrs for you? Remember, it's only a reflection of what you do for all my girls."

Dean ducked his head in embarrassment. He managed to mumble out a thanks, or something close to it, before opening the door and gratefully backing out through it. Fucking emo-overload moments.

"Don't you be cussin' around me!"

Psychics, Dean repeated once he was far enough away for it to be safe, were fucking scary. 

  


  
Missouri walked back to her office. She had paperwork to file, supplies to order, and a notice of pregnancy to send out to all the other Den Mothers. She also had to remember to schedule a return trip for the boys since Dean had been right about poor Jessica Moore feeling safe around the youngest Winchester. She might be ready to take the next step in a few months and it was only fair the chance be given to Sam. She'd have to talk to Jessica first, of course.

She entered her office that she'd decorated in warm colors and soft fabrics. It was her sanctuary for when she needed to escape from everyone and their thoughts. Today, however, there was no escape. An older man sat on her couch playing with a worn wedding band. She knew he was tall but he sat hunched over as if a great weight was crushing him. Soft, sad, brown eyes looked up at her. "Did he do it?" the man asked. "Is he going to be a father?"

"You already figured he would."

He didn't deny the accusation so Missouri continued. "That boy… He has powerful abilities. Don't know why nobody's ever noticed." John said nothing to confirm her suspicions and she could read nothing of his thoughts: he was one of the very few who were completely blocked to her.

Suddenly she'd had enough. She loved those boys like they were her own sons and this man was keeping secrets from them—secrets that could cost them their freedom or their lives.

"John Winchester, I could just slap you," she snapped. "Why won't you go talk to your children?"

John didn't try to hide from her or justify himself, she could give him that, but he didn't give in either. "I want to. You have no idea how much I wanna see 'em." His voice hitched and she could see he was choking back tears. "But I can't. I can't put them in danger like that."

"They're already in danger just by being what they are." John's eyes popped up to hers fearful and suspicious. She rolled her eyes. "Of course I know. I'm not a two-bit carny sideshow after all. I've kept their secrets all these years; I ain't gonna stop now."

He was quiet as he absorbed that truth. She nodded in satisfaction when he accepted it but her eyes remained as fierce as before.

"Caleb's dead," he said by way of explanation. "I'd gone to the telegraph office, only a couple minutes before, when neighbors saw a yellow-eyed man enter his shop. Then there was a fire and Caleb was killed. Just like Mary and Jim. And Daniel Elkins, too. That bastard is targeting the people I care about."

"I know, John—"

"Then you know why I can't risk it."

She put her hand on her hip and glared at him. "I know you _think_ you're protecting them. It's the only reason I didn't jus' kick you out the door in front of one of them."

John smiled slowly. He was nearly twice Missouri's height but she would've found a way to do it. "I appreciate it. I promise. Once I know for sure… then I'll find them."

"Uh-huh," she responded. It was obvious she didn't believe him but she must have realized there was no budging the man because she was giving up.

"Speaking of knowing the whole truth, I've got something of yours and I'm mighty tired of trippin' over it every time I turn around." She walked over to the shelves in the corner of her office and pulled a large leather case from off the lowest one. There were initials on the worn cases: MMW in brass letters that were bent and scratched. John recognized it right away. It had been his father's case, and his grandfather's. The history of the Winchesters passed down from oldest son to oldest son.

She dropped it into John's lap. It was heavy. "Maybe some of the answers you're lookin' for are in there."

John looked down at the box that had belonged to his father and doubted it. He doubted it very much.


	3. Dust In the Wind

  


The next day Dean received a message from Bobby; he'd finally found a copy of a report they'd been looking for. The report, as far as they knew, was the last thing their father had read before he'd taken off. Nobody they knew had a copy so they had no idea why it had chased John Winchester into hiding. They'd practically given up hope of finding one so Bobby's news was like manna from Heaven.

Dean had telegraphed back a warning of their imminent arrival and then he'd found Sam and told him they were pulling out.

Dean finished the repairs on the generator. Sam finished the warding wall with Damien and Barnes. Between the three of them, even working as fast as they did, they had it reinforced to Fort Knox standards. Sam thought of some spells that could maybe detect what was making the sigils degrade so fast. They put it in some of the anchor stones but it was a long shot. Air work, by its very nature, was always ephemeral: it didn't like being static.

As they stepped out to the Impala, Sam got a shy kiss on the cheek from Jessica and a not-so-shy smile. He blushed and allowed himself to wonder if he would be Invited back. He looked down the couple inches he had on her and couldn't help but think that, between the two of them, they'd make some pretty fricking tall kids.

Dean exchanged a slow sampling of lips with Carmen where tongues barely passed lips yet it somehow seemed more intimate than a display of tonsil-cleaning would have. Watching them, Sam couldn't help but blush. He cleared his throat but Dean held up a finger and continued with his gentle caress. The other women smiled and giggled and poked Sam in the side. Sam blushed harder and rolled his eyes behind Dean's back. Then Dean broke it off and gave them all a grin and a wink before heading for the Impala, yelling at Sam to get his ass in gear.

As if Sam had been the one holding them up…

Then they were on the road again and life was back to normal. Or, Sam modified the thought, as normal as it ever got for them. Still, there was a feeling of contentment and completion. They'd done their jobs and done them well, and in Dean's case had fun doing it. Dean dug his shoulders into the leather of the driver's seat as if he were coming home. He put in some tunes and sang along happily as the miles passed in a purring hum beneath the tires.

Sam smiled as he watched his unselfconscious partner.

Dean was practically perfect in every way: tough, competent, efficient, deadly, and pretty too. He was so perfect it could be intimidating just sitting next to him.

And then he tried to sing and the image of perfection crumbled into ear-splitting dust.

Sam was one of the few, the _very_ few, who knew Dean could not carry a tune to save anyone's life, and childish as it was, it made him happy to know Dean would let loose in front of him like that. That Dean trusted him that much. Still, secret knowledge was heartwarming, bleeding ears were not.

"So Dad said he had proof about the cause of the Storm," Sam said, repeating stuff they'd already discussed to ashes. "You honestly think this report will help us find it?"

Dean shook his head. "You know what he thought, Sam. Same thing Jim thought. I don't see how this thing _can_ confirm it was the start of the Apocalypse. I mean, come on, the freaking _Apocalypse_?" He glanced over at Sam, eyes rolling in disbelief. "But it might give us some idea of where to look for Dad."

The mention of John's disappearance irritated Sam as it always did. He knew he should leave it but he seemed to be physically incapable of it. "What the hell is he up to?" Sam demanded, knowing even as he said it that Dean had nothing new to offer. "He up and leaves, no explanation, no back-up. He's not responding to messages, nothing."

Dean shrugged. What could he say? Dad hadn't completely explained it to him either, only that it was to protect Sam… which was pretty frigging _lame_ as far as Sam was concerned. It wasn't like he was seven, for Christ sake. "He said he had a lead and he'd be out of touch for a while."

"An understatement," Sam snorted unhappily. "I swear that guy's worse than freaking Buddha."

"Buddha was a pacifist," Dean pointed out mock seriously. Sam smiled but still smacked him up the back of the head. "We'll find him, Sammy. We'll find him and we'll fix this."

Whatever 'this' was.

Sam sighed one last time and let the subject drop. There was nothing he could do about it yet so he might as well enjoy what he had. Let the future unfold as it may, he thought, and he remembered his future now included being kind of an uncle or something.

He sat shotgun and kept a part of his mind on the wards, alert to signs of weakening. Dean had made sure he knew how to drive, but like most airmen, the only time he got to practice was when everyone else was too hurt to stay awake behind the wheel and he was okay with that. To either side of the two-lane highway the landscape was open, abandoned to the Dust that swept over it. The only good thing to be said for it was the land wasn't dead. With some warding and a lot of hard work, the ground could be made fertile again. There just weren't enough people to do it: not to ward it, not to work it. Not today but maybe one day…

He had Dean stop once so he could do a quick fix on a couple sigils. They'd report the weak spot when they got to Sioux Falls; otherwise it was a quiet drive. The sun was shining down and Dean was playing Zeppelin low in the background and they were going to see Bobby, who was like another member of the family, so this was a good day. They'd be at his home town in another four hours and Sam was looking forward to seeing the wily old hunter again. Of course Bobby's meant another who-knew-how-long in a separate bedroom from Dean after nearly two weeks at Missouri's.

Where Dean had made a baby.

He squirmed in his seat suddenly unable to get comfortable. Dean slashed him a look but said nothing. For once Sam was grateful his brother didn't like to talk things out because Sam could think of no way to express what he was thinking without coming off as a selfish jerk. It wasn't like he hadn't accepted a casual invitation or two back in Lawrence, and it wasn't like he resented Dean's Invitation, but for some reason he thought something had maybe changed—something between them.

Unfortunately, his thankfulness was short-lived. At the next turn-out Dean pulled the Impala off the road and threw it into park. Sam knew the older man was looking at him but he resolutely picked at some loose threads in his jeans. "Pee break?" he asked, knowing it wasn't.

Dean snorted, "Not even close, princess."

Sam wasn't surprised when Dean didn't put the car back in gear. The older man got out, grabbed a beer from the cooler then sauntered to the front of the car. He'd already stripped off his jacket and now Sam watched as he peeled down to his T-shirt. He sat down on the hood and settled in to wait.

Sam glared at his oblivious back.

Dean knew it irritated him when he did this kind of stuff. For all the older Winchester _said_ he hated emotional scenes, he was sure good at provoking them. He stuck his head out the window, "You know we should get going if we want to reach Bobby's while there's still daylight."

"We got plenty of time," Dean called back completely unfazed. "Come out and have a beer with me, Sammy. It's a beautiful day."

Sam nearly threw up his hands in disgust. This was so typical of Dean. He would never come out and say 'Hey, Sam, what's bothering you,' instead he'd park, and sit, and wait until the frigging end of days for Sam to start the conversation so that _Sam_ could talk about what was bothering him. But if Sam wanted to talk about what's bothering Dean? Well, that was a different story.

Dean denied it but Sam knew the tinman had boosted the amplifier in the car so he could play his tapes even louder when he wanted to drown out Sam and muffle his own thoughts. Hell, he could probably cover up the zombie apocalypse in the next State over. Hundreds of shambling monsters mumbling 'brains' would never be heard over Brian Johnson shouting 'Highway to Hell' out of the Impala.

"You worried what the sun will do to your pretty complexion there, princess?" Dean asked interrupting Sam's thoughts. He wasn't going to let it go. Dean was going to be patience personified again.

Hypocritical bastard, Sam fumed.

Still, if Dean wanted to play that game Sam was going to take advantage. He reached over the back of the seat to grab a beer before going out to perch next to the other hunter. He didn't say anything right away. He didn't need to. Just by coming out he'd indicated he _would_ talk eventually. Once they'd finished their drinks, he'd talk. Besides, Dean had been right: it _was_ a beautiful day. The sky overhead was clear so the sun could shine down. The wind coming through the warding had a hint of cool. There was no Dust so the view went on for miles. It was pretty.

Sam gave the sigils surrounding the pull out a quick inspection hardly even aware he was doing it until Dean asked if they were okay. He nodded so they both went back to quiet enjoyment. It was actually a very nice spot. He looked at his companion wondering if Dean had known this turn-out was nicer than most. He decided not to ask because Dean would probably laugh at him and deny it and then he would've laid himself open for endless mockery.

They finished their beers in companionable silence. Dean took the empties and put them in the back. They'd give them to the next brewers they came to so they'd be cleaned and reused. Glass wasn't rare but why waste it?

Sam hardly waited until he'd settled himself against the Impala again. "It's odd how the mind works." A safe statement, innocuous and open to interpretation, it was also a cop out. Sam dragged in a breath and tried again. "It didn't hit me until we were leaving and Carmen gave me a hug, but she's pregnant." It wasn't actually what he'd meant to say. He'd _meant_ to talk about how many weeks they'd gone without, you know, intimacy, which sounded even worse than the pregnancy thing now he'd thought it out.

"I know... I know that's why we were there. That's what you'd been invited to do, but it didn't seem real until that moment. You made a kid with her." Dean said nothing because there was nothing he could say to that. Sam swallowed, "Would you have stayed with her if the world was different?"

"Different how?"

"Like it was before everything went to shit," Sam answered impatiently. He knew Dean knew what he was talking about.

"When there was more than one woman for every twenty or thirty guys." It was a statement but Sam nodded in confirmation anyway. "Aw, fuck. I hate 'what ifs'."

Sam stayed quiet, letting Dean chew on the question like he always did with the important stuff.

Finally Dean sighed. "I can't answer that, Sam. I just…" A pause, another breath. "I like women. I do. I like sex with women. If there were more women, I probably would have more sex with women but there aren't so what is the point of thinking about it. Would I stay with Carmen?" Dean grimaced, shaking his head a little. "Shit, I doubt we'd even meet. Half the people we know would probably be strangers if the world was different. You know I believe that."

Sam did know Dean believed if there'd been no Storm then there'd be no monsters, no hunting and no reason to seek out other hunters, but Sam wasn't so sure that was true. He couldn't imagine a world where they wouldn't know people like Missouri or Bobby or the Harvelles.

He avoided Dean's hard gaze but he couldn't avoid his hard question, "What is this really about? Is it because I had sex with Carmen?"

Sam rubbed sweaty hands on his thighs. What was this about? It wasn't Dean having sex with Carmen or any other woman. It had never bothered him in the past. Sometimes he found the idea kind of hot actually. Imagining Dean's moves and the woman's reactions—and maybe being invited to join in—had been the subject of more than a few bathroom fantasies, which he was _so_ not ever admitting to in case Dean decided to indulge him.

So what was his problem?

It's not like Dean would ever want to settle in one place for long. The few times they'd been forced to lay up, usually due to injuries, the guy had gone freaking nuts. Once he'd chopped the power cable while 'practicing' his knife throwing. At least fixing the wire had kept him busy for a while and surprisingly happy. It had actually been kind of nice being settled someplace with Dean. Just the two of them… and he knew what was bothering him.

"It sounds stupid and selfish, I know, but I'm jealous because she owns a piece of you I can't be part of," he admitted. Sam refused to look at the older hunter. Instead he picked at a fraying spot on his jeans.

"What?" Dean said, bewildered.

Sam frowned, pulling at some loose threads. "You know what I mean."

"No, man, I don't."

This was so freaking hard. Sam knew if he didn't phrase it right he'd come across like an angry girlfriend or a giant dick so he took his time picking out the right words. "A baby is permanent and it's something we can never have together."

Dean moved to stand right in front of him. He dipped his head so he could look Sam in the eye. Sam didn't want to but he knew Dean would stand like that forever until he looked back, so he let their gazes lock and felt the color rise in his cheeks.

"One; she doesn't 'own' anything. Once that baby comes out of her it's a person not a possession. Two: If you think you aren't going to be part of the life of any kid of mine, you're dreaming. The same goes the other way: any kid of yours, I'm going to be right there with you." Dean put a hand on Sam's chin and raised it before continuing, "You're my _partner_. You're the only one who 'owns a piece of me' so you don't need to be jealous."

"I'm not… it's not…" he stammered before shutting up. He _was_ jealous. Fuck Dean could be pretty intuitive sometimes. Sam often forgot because the tinman was way too content to let everyone think of him as some brain deficient motor-head. "You're right." He pushed his fingertip through the hole he'd created in his jeans only to have his fingers smacked.

"I know I'm right," Dean said. "If it makes you feel better, this is weird for me too. First time we haven't shared something this important." Hearing it did make Sam feel better: he wasn't the only one unsettled by this.

"I also know what you need right now."

Sam swallowed in helpless anticipation: he knew that soft growl, knew what it meant. Dean tipped his head and licked at the corner of Sam's mouth. Sam's breath caught. Strong hands gripped his knees and parted them, a rough caress that had Sam's lungs tightening. He swallowed and licked his lips in anticipation but Dean's kiss wasn't forceful. It was gentle, more like touching than kissing, a light brushing of lips but it made sparks happen. It was the same way he'd kissed Carmen.

"We're in the open," Sam forced himself to say even though he was already hard and didn't actually want to stop.

"So?"

"Anybody going by will be able to see."

Dean laughed, warm puffs of air in Sam's ear that made him shiver. "Nobody's driving this road, and even if they were, they'd be racing for the next township and you know it." Sam did know it. The Impala was one of the few cars out here with the power to make up lost time. Hybrids, cobbled together or bought new, didn't have the guts: good acceleration; lousy top speed.

Dean shifted until they were nearly nose to nose. "Got any other stupid arguments?" his lips almost brushed Sam's when he asked the question. Sam shook his head, feeling the electricity spark between them.

"Good," Dean whispered. He leaned forward that little bit further and their lips touched, a gentle rub of flesh, and Sam instantly knew Dean had been right: he did need this. He needed this time where it was just them. He needed to be claimed and marked, to be possessed, and by the very act of giving in, to possess Dean right back.

He moaned and parted his lips. Dean accepted the invitation and licked his way inside, keeping it shallow and soft, treating Sam like he was precious. Or like he was a tasty treat that deserved to be savored for as long as possible. Sam loved feeling so special. He shifted, trying to deepen the kiss but Dean backed away. Sam barely controlled his whine of protest but Dean knew anyway. He chuckled against Sam's throat, sucking a path up over sensitive skin to his ear.

"Hard or soft, Sammy," he asked. Sam shuddered. Hard: rough and fast, bruising hands and biting teeth. Soft: slow torture, gentle hands, words of love and praise. He didn't know, couldn't choose, except… he wanted Dean to know what he wanted without him having to say anything.

"Just…just you," he finally gasped. "Just you." He could feel Dean's smile against his skin.

"Atta boy, Sammy." Strong hands reached under his shirts, peeling them off, making him vulnerable. Dean's hands were calloused and the rough skin scraped over him, raising goose bumps and causing his breath to hitch.

Once his shirts were gone, Dean took advantage. He explored Sam, bones and muscles mapped out, petted and squeezed and rubbed. Then he started in with his mouth, nibbling and licking and biting and sucking. It was typical Dean: careful and caring but always with the threat of violence right below the surface. He moved across the surface of Sam's body but Sam could feel him deeper than that. He could feel Dean's power rippling inside him, exploring him in the same way Dean's lips were. It was beyond electrifying and Sam's body responded in its usual fashion. His breath shortened, his cock hardened and his brain whited out. "Dean. God…" he writhed.

"Shh," Dean murmured. "I've got you." He carefully lowered Sam so he lay on the hood. It didn't help. The Impala's wards recognized him and they hummed through his skin, a small tingle that made him arch in helpless arousal.

"Shh. I've got you," Dean repeated. Sure hands removed his belt and undid his pants even as the older Winchester kissed the pebbled skin of Sam's protection tattoo. Dean had one too; their dad as well—though Sam wasn't going to think about John Winchester given his current position—but he'd always thought the symbol looked way better on Dean's skin than on his own. Suddenly he wanted to see it: wanted to see Dean's tattoo and feel Dean's bare skin next to his own. Desperate fingers scrabbled to find the edge of fabric so he could pull it up and get it out of the way.

"Easy, Sammy," Dean whispered. "I'll take care of it." He backed away and quickly stripped his shirts off. Sam groaned when Dean leaned over to kiss him, chest to chest, so warm and smooth.

"Pants," he gasped out the order.

"Soon, baby," Dean answered. His mouth was back on Sam's chest, licking at the hard nubs of his nipples, sucking at them, and rolling them with his lips. "So pretty, Sam."

Sam whimpered as Dean moved from one side of his body to the other. His hands were busy rubbing Sam's belly where the skin was soft even if the muscles were like stone.

"You feel good, Sammy," the tinman said and Sam knew he didn't just mean his body's outer layers.

"Talk to me, baby," Dean purred. "Tell me you're ready."

It was the same tone Dean used when trying to coax another 10 MPH from the Impala but Sam didn't care. It was low and smooth and so fucking sexy. Sam never got tired of hearing it. Besides, he felt like the engine in the Impala after Dean pushed her into overdrive. His breath was bellowing, his heart was racing, and all his limbs were tense in anticipation. "Yeeesssss," he begged. "Fuck yes."

Dean chuckled and urged him to raise his hips. It took a couple tries before Sam understood the silent command. He stayed passive as the older hunter stripped him out of boots and pants and everything. Moaning as Dean ran strong hands over the long muscles of his legs, testing them, caressing them, making them feel better than they had before. "Fucking magic fingers."

"You betcha, baby," Dean agreed. He was mouthing at the sensitive crease where Sam's hip met his leg. Close, so close, to where Sam wanted, needed, the contact. He tried to tilt his pelvis but Dean's grip moved to hold him in place. He whined, he moaned, he pleaded but Dean refused to hurry. He looked up into the blue of sky, unlimited since there was nothing swirling against the walls. He felt the heat of the afternoon sun tempered by a slight breeze. It cooled the sweat on the body, made the sticky-wet of his pre-cum feel like cold pearls against his belly.

Dominating all the sensations was Dean. Dean's breath, Dean's touch, Dean's words and his heat.

He only realized he closed his eyes when he opened them to find out why Dean had moved away. He watched as his partner walked to the Impala's glove box to remove the cream they used as lube. There were condoms in there too, he remembered. "No rubber," he called out and Dean paused, silently asking if he was sure. Sam nodded once. He wanted what Carmen had gotten—all of it—and it didn't matter that it was messy and would making sitting kind of gross. Right now, he didn't care.

The other hunter removed his pants, joining him in being naked here in this place and in this time. He squeezed the cream out even as he coaxed Sam to brace his opened legs on the bumper, to slide his ass down closer to the edge.

"I did this for Carmen," the older hunter said, "so I wouldn't hurt her. Don't want to hurt you either." Then Dean slowly, carefully, steadily, inserted first one lube slick finger then two, stretching and teasing and checking, because Dean liked to be efficient.

Sam didn't know, couldn't tell, how long Dean spent getting him ready, getting him worked up. He was so beyond aroused Dean had one hand clamped around the base of his penis so he couldn't climax. He'd given up begging. He'd stopped writhing. All he did was exist inside a body filled with nerve endings and sparks of energy. When Dean finally pushed his erection inside, so full and hot, Sam sighed with the absolute rightness of it.

"Gonna fuck you hard now, Sammy," Dean purred, words hard but tone soft. "Gonna make you come."

Sam opened lust glazed eyes. "Promises, promises," he slurred, "All talk, no action."

Dean smiled. It was his evil, all-knowing, can't-resist-a-dare smile and Sam braced himself. Dean dragged his legs over his arms, grabbed onto his shoulders and made it so Sam was completely at his mercy. "Let's do this, bitch," he crooned and he began to move. Hard strokes, quick and firm, and each thrust pushed Dean's erection right onto Sam's prostate.

Three strokes.

It only took three strokes to have Sam tensing and tightening, exploding and spilling, and yes, screaming. It was fricking embarrassing, except that it wasn't because it was Dean and Dean knew him that well. Thick streaks of cum lanced over his chest, spotted his chin and his cheek. Dean leaned even farther over him, bending him even more, so he could lick up the warm salty liquid. "Missed this, Sammy," Dean muttered, "missed you." Then he was tensing and jerking and Sam could feel it filling him in warm pulsing waves. He automatically tightened around Dean, drawing his orgasm out, and Dean groaned his appreciation. One last thrust and he was done.

The older hunter relaxed his arms, letting Sam's legs fall back onto the hood, helping his feet find the bumper. He put his forehead against Sam's and they panted in sated contentment together.

Then Dean scooped up some of Sam's jizz and scrawled a couple simple sigils on the Impala's hood while he muttered spellwords in Enochian to boost her protections.

"Dean!" Sam protested.

"What?" Dean smirked. "She's my baby too. I gotta take care of her like I take care of you." Sam would have said more but Dean caught his lips in a lazy sucking kiss that cleaned out his mind. The sun shone. Birds sang. It was still summer and all was good.


	4. A Little Help from My Friends

"Report of the Secretary-General on the Immediate Impact and Possible Long-Term Effect of the Global Storm of 1983," Dean read the title off the blue cover. "Huh, this is what Dad was reading?"

"As far as I know," Bobby answered.

"Sounds riveting," Dean said before rolling his eyes and tossing it down on the desk.

In the background, hazy with snow and static, Bobby's TV droned on as the meteorologist tracked high fronts and Dust Storms across the continent using stickers and felt pens. They ignored it, because even though Dust was carried on the wind it was also freaking weird and practically sentient. Therefore, predictions were, in John Winchester's immortal words, absolute crap.

"How'd you get this, Bobby?" Sam asked a little awed. "I heard the government was trying to suppress it or something."

"People are always saying that," the old hunter snorted. He shrugged. "It wasn't _hard_. Just have to know the right people."

Sam looked up from where he was flipping through the pages and smiled. "And you know the right people."

"Did you doubt it?" Bobby protested in mock offense.

"You're the guru, Bobby, or the Yoda." Dean hit Bobby on the shoulder as he got up to get himself another beer.

"Totally awesome," Sam agreed already getting lost in the thick document.

Bobby's friend was standing in the entrance to the kitchen so Dean said hello to him as he walked past. He wished he could like the guy more since they often ran across each other at Bobby's, but he couldn't. There was something about Crowley that made his skin itch. Whether it was the (probably) fake accent or the too-good-for-you suits the guy always wore, he irritated Dean and that's all there was to it. Still, he was Bobby's friend and Dean liked the older hunter enough to make an effort at being polite. "You want a beer?" he asked.

The guy sneered, "I'd love one. Unfortunately, you Yanks never have any."

Pretentious asshole, Dean thought.

"This is great stuff, Bobby." Dean could hear Sam's enthusiasm. "What Jim used to say about the Storm hitting the Judeo-Christian countries the hardest? It's true."

"Yeah, I saw that."

Dean walked back into the study, carefully avoiding Bobby's friend but trying not to be obvious about it. "So what does that mean in, you know, practical terms."

"Armageddon," Crowley commented from his place against the wall.

Dean looked at him. Hell, they all looked at him, but where he and Sam looked skeptical Bobby looked worried. "Armageddon… like in the Bible?"

"Revelation in all its glory." Crowley smiled as he said it, but not like he was happy with the news.

"The End Times," Sam breathed in fearful awe. "It fits." He and Bobby shared a look filled with trepidation until Dean couldn't stand it anymore.

"Oh, come _on_. This ain't no Bible story and this ain't no End Times."

"But it fits," Sam repeated. "The Dust, it's kind of red…ish. Well, purple maybe, but that has red in it. And people definitely went crazy right after the Storm. And there were those epidemics; they killed a lot more people."

"Those could've been Horsemen," Crowley pointed out helpfully. "War, Pestilence and Death."

"Food supply went to crap for a while too," Bobby backed him up, "so that would be Famine."

Sam nodded and added, "All the monsters and stuff that appeared."

Dean raised his hand. "Enough! Jeez. Revelation isn't prophecy. It's an anti-Roman political tract that somehow got stuck in the Bible. It was pertinent, like, two thousand years ago."

"Oh ye of little faith," Crowley sneered into his glass of whiskey. When the hell had he poured himself some whiskey, Dean wondered. "Let's see if you're still so skeptical when Satan is breathing down your neck."

"I'd really like to see the Devil walking down Main Street," Dean scoffed.

"No," Crowley responded dead serious. "You really wouldn't." There was a tone to the comment that stopped the conversation and turned it cold and menacing.

"So, okay," Dean conceded for the sake of argument, "we're heading into Armageddon. Aren't there supposed to be signs and angels and blowing horns and stuff?"

" _And the voice I had first heard speaking to me like a trumpet said; 'Come up here and I will show you what must take place after this.'_ Is that the kind of thing you mean?" Crowley said, sipping the amber drink in his glass. "Lacks subtlety don't you think?"

It was like this every time he met the guy, Dean reflected. He always forgot Crowley was a religious nut—like Kubrick but without the purity. It was part of the problem he had with the other man. For whatever reason, Dean could not see Bobby's friend going to church every Sunday and listening to the sermons. The picture just wouldn't form in his head.

"Whatever, dude." Dean shrugged him off. "Even if this is some kind of precursor to the Apocalypse, what are we supposed to do about it? That's a major show down between Heaven and Hell, and guess what guys? That's way above our pay grade."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're right. The Apocalypse isn't our problem but Dad is." He tapped his finger on the page. "If he _was_ reading this report before he took off then it might give us an idea of _why_ he left, which could tell us _where_ he went to."

Dean let the idea rumble around a little. It _could,_ maybe, give them an idea of what their dad had been thinking. God knows the guy could be cryptic as fuck and Dean was pretty sure they'd never think as twisty as John Winchester without help. It was at least someplace to start. He shrugged again, but this time to indicate acceptance of the plan. Sam gave him a secret little smile, the same one he'd been giving Dean for seven years. Seven years of being full partners and it still hadn't gotten old. That's what Sam's smile said.

Dean couldn't help responding with his own lopsided smile. Dad leaving them had hurt, yeah, but now it was a puzzle more than anything because he had Sam and Sam had him and together they'd figure this shit out.

He realized they'd been silent for too long, looking at each other in silent conversation, when Crowley cleared his throat. With a startled jump they broke the eye-lock. Sam buried his head in the report to hide his blush. Dean took another pull from his beer. He didn't think they fooled anyone.

"Well, as touching as this is I've got other things to see to." Crowley finished his drink, slamming the glass down on a side table. He flashed the room a phony smile. "Boys, a pleasure as always."

Bobby stood up hastily. "I'll see you out."

Neither Dean nor Sam said anything until they heard the front door close. Sam's shoulders dropped and he turned to face his co-pilot, "Dean, I'm sorry."

Dean shook it off, "Not your fault, man."

"You think they guessed?"

"Even if they did, we wouldn't be the first incestuous partnership out there," Dean replied. "Look at Roy and Walt."

Sam made a face. "I'd rather not look at them, thanks." Dean grimaced because he couldn't argue with that. "It's just… It's not the way Jim raised us and everybody knows that. What if someone uses it to guess the truth?"

"If anybody cares, and likely nobody will," Dean emphasized "then we'll deal with it then. There's no point in borrowing trouble, right?" He dipped his head so he could look Sam straight in the eyes. "Right?" he repeated until Sam gave a reluctant nod. "Besides, Bobby's not going to say anything, not to anyone."

"What about Crowley?" the younger hunter asked, and that question Dean couldn't shrug away because he didn't know. Crowley was a secretive fuck and Dean was convinced the limey bastard was hiding something… maybe lots of somethings. 

  


  
Bobby grabbed Crowley's arm and steered him toward the shop, making sure there was plenty of distance between them and the house before he asked his question. "Why are you doing this?"

Crowley tried to look confused, "I thought you wanted the report."

" _Wanted_ it, yeah, but I didn't _ask_ for it," Bobby responded angrily. Bobby and his wife—God rest her soul—had never been blessed with children but he'd had a damn good substitute with the Winchesters. He'd helped Sam learn how to walk, helped Dean learn how to tie knots. They were his boys in all the ways that mattered and he wanted to know why a _demon_ was helping them.

"What can I say? I'm an altruist." Crowley couldn't manage to look innocent either.

"No, you're not," Bobby rejected the statement outright. "Why did you do this? Why do you want the Winchesters to think it's the Apocalypse?"

"Because maybe it _is_?" Crowley responded. "Or close enough I can smell it in the air."

"If that's true then my question is even more valid. If this is Armageddon then Lucifer will walk the earth. Why would you, a demon, want to stop it?"

Crowley rolled his eyes in disgust. "Lucifer isn't a demon, remember? He's an angel. An angel famous for his hatred of humankind. To him, you're just filthy bags of pus." Bobby grimaced at the image. He opened his mouth but Crowley wasn't finished, "If that's the way he feels about you, what can he think about us?"

"But he created you. Why would he destroy you?" he asked. "It seems a little…"

"Evil?" Crowley asked with a touch of humor. "In his mind, we're just servants, cannon fodder. If Lucifer manages to exterminate humankind, we're next. I like this life. I like _my_ life. I want it to continue and those two functioning morons in there are my best chance of making it happen."

"The Winchesters," Bobby said incredulously. Crowley lifted his brow—it was almost as good as a nod. "The Winchesters are going to stop the Apocalypse?"

"As pathetic as it may be, from everything I've heard, they have the best chance."

He didn't know how it happened, but Bobby had both hands fisted in Crowley's coat practically lifting the smaller creature off the ground. "How?" he demanded.

"I don't know."

Bobby shook him. "How, Goddamn it!"

"I don't know!" Crowley shouted back. "All I know is there's been talk about them downstairs. High level demons speculating how they can do something to start it, or stop it, I don't know which. The other demons don't talk to me much."

"Bullshit!" Bobby gave him another shake.

"They don't!" Crowley defended himself. "I'm a _crossroads_ demon. As far as they're concerned that's practically sales, and they don't have a lot of respect for salesmen. They're like those Neanderthals in there," he jerked his head towards Bobby's house. "No subtlety. All they want is a weapon and something to point it at."

Bobby finally dropped Crowley though he didn't let go. "So those boys are weapons?"

Crowley took a moment to brush the wrinkles out of his coat before replying. "Or maybe they're the ammunition."

That sounded even worse.

Bobby flung the demon away from him. He glared. If he'd had a weapon handy, he would've been hard pressed not to damage Crowley on principle. As it was he turned on his heel and stalked back into the house. He didn't look back, didn't turn around to make some pithy parting comment.

He should have.

If he'd looked, he would've seen black hair morph to sandy brown, and dark eyes lighten to pale hazel. Even the clothing changed: natty suit to worn denim.

Rumsfeld, not exactly the smartest animal in existence, stared at the newcomer, tilting his head as if trying to figure out if it was okay to bite him. He'd learned not to bite the dark man but this was no longer the dark man.

The new guy looked down at the mutt and pre-empted any attack by tossing a piece of chocolate at him. "It's a good thing your owner's almost as gullible as you are or this would've gone really, really badly."

Rumsfeld looked up hoping for more of the tasty treat but the man was already gone. 

  


  
Dean had had more than enough of burying himself in old books and trying to read ancient languages in faded print. Sam might take to it like a pig in a mushroom patch but Dean had always been an action man. Which was as it should be since Sam was The Airhead and Dean was The Tinman. One of a tinman's duties was to protect the airhead in battle, with guns usually, although Dean wasn't adverse to small flamethrowers. However, there wasn't anything to burn at Bobby's, and even _he_ couldn't find anything else to buff or replace on the Impala. By the time Sam finally took pity on him and suggested they go down to the Roadhouse—check their mail, link up with some other hunters, visit with whoever was passing through—Dean was just about ready to make his own explosives and use them on some of the forgotten wrecks rusting away along the back fence.

Needless to say, he took Sam's suggestion with grace and dignity. He did not let out a yell or do a happy dance. (Even if Sam had liked the hip wiggle enough to find one of those abandoned wrecks with him.)

Bobby's place may have been a treasure house of knowledge but the Roadhouse was where everyone went eventually, and Dean could feel Dad getting farther away from them every hour they stayed here.

Dean ran one more check on the Impala and when he was done she gleamed as if she'd just come off the lot.

"Man, would you listen to her purr!" he said once they were out and driving through what was, despite the Dust blocking the view to the sides of the road, a beautiful fall day.

"You know if you two want to get a room…" Sam teased.

Dean patted her dash, stroking it lightly. "Don't listen to him, baby," he reassured her. "He doesn't understand us." Sam chuckled even as he settled himself into his familiar corner. Dean wasn't the only one who could feel her hum of contentment.

"So, what messed up prophecy did you and Bobby decide we were dealing with?" Dean asked mockingly.

Sam shook his head at Dean's phrasing but still pulled out the notes he'd made. He read passages from the report and the two hunters dissected it, arguing about meaning and portents. When Sam pulled out a small copy of the New Testament the arguments got a little more whack-a-do, but Dean didn't stop him from comparing them. Whatever information the report contained it had fanned the flame of their dad's obsessive quest to find out what had killed Mom and Pastor Jim because John Winchester believed—absolutely and completely—the same thing had killed both of them.

Not that their dad had ever discussed his theories with them, not in depth. All he'd ever said was they had to trust him. Dean could do that. He didn't _like_ it, but he did it.

It was a sore spot with the younger hunter, though, because Sam had never been able to accept anyone's word for anything, not even Dean's a lot of the time. Instead he questioned, he argued, he _pressed_ and he got angry when John shouted back.

Dean didn't want his relationship with Sam to be filled with angry words and ugly insults so when the speculation drifted too far into Oz he shut up, played his tapes low and listened to the Impala's soft roar. They were good sounds, as were the little hums Sam made as he thought of questions and found answers. The airhead now had a half dozen books stacked on the seat between them and a pen clutched between his lips. From the corner of his eye, Dean watched him carefully making a chart to analyze the information they had: one color for facts, one for hearsay, one for plausible speculation, and a final color for outright fairy tales.

They'd watched Pastor Jim doing the same thing when they'd all been riding together.

"I miss Jim," he said into the non-silence of Zeppelin playing low in the background. Sam looked up in surprise because Dean hardly ever talked about the man who'd been their father's partner for fifteen years. "He was so calm about shit. So certain it would all work out. I don't know how he did it."

"He had faith," Sam responded and it was true: Jim Murphy had believed. He'd believed in God and that angels watched over the world. He'd believed in the basic goodness of people and that redemption was always possible.

Dean snorted, "Much good it did him." Maybe he'd been murdered by the same thing that had attacked Mary Winchester or maybe the authorities were right and the Pastor had been killed by some asshole needing a fix. Either way, it didn't stop him from being dead.

"You know what I've got faith in?" Dean said after a couple more miles. "Reality. Knowing what's really going on."

"How can you be a skeptic? With the things we see every day?"

"Exactly," he slapped the steering wheel as if Sam had made his point for him. "We see them, demons and monsters, every day and we know they're real but no hunter's ever seen an angel."

Sam dipped his head conceding the point, but he wasn't finished arguing. "How does that prove good doesn't exist?"

"Because I've seen what evil does to good people." Dean turned to look at Sam, wanting him to understand.

"And, what, you've never seen what good does to evil people?" Sam asked it lightly. "And here I thought I was having a positive effect on you."

Dean stared at him but Sam's face stayed solemn and kind of hurt—too solemn and hurt. "You bitch," he said even as the younger hunter broke out laughing. "See what happens next time _you_ want to have a serious conversation.

"I'm sorry," Sam gasped. "I couldn't resist."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean grumped. "I'd like to know what gave you the idea _I_ was the evil one in this partnership. I'll have you know I'm an innocent little lamb."

"Being led astray by the big bad wolf?" Sam asked, the light in his eye changing to something a little deeper, a little darker.

Dean shifted in the driver's seat as his body responded to that look, that tone. "Don't have time for this." They had another three hours driving before they got to Ellen's and darkness would be coming on soon after.

A large hand came up and Sam ran his blunt fingers through Dean's short hair, pressing just hard enough to cause shivers to cascade down Dean's spine. The older hunter didn't have to look to know what was reflected in Sam's eyes now.

"Fuck." Dean revised his staying power to non-existent and looked for a wide spot in the road.

"Lamb to the slaughter," Sam snickered as his hand dropped.

When Dean found a wide-spot, he slammed the Impala into park and opened his door. "Gonna have to be quick," he challenged with a grin.

"Oh, come _on_ ," Sam griped even as he opened his door. "What are you, twelve?" Dean grinned harder since he already had his pants open and partially down. Sam took up his usual position on the other side of the Impala's hood. He could feel her engine purring through the metal.

It was quick and it was primal. The sun beat down on them tinted by the Dust. They didn't notice. Anyone could come along and see them beating off over the hood of their car. They didn't care. They kept their eyes locked on each other's even as they caught glimpses of strong hands pumping over thick cocks, hard and tight. They panted the words of the protective spell: words of power and trust, words of heat and connection, words of love—though neither of them would ever admit it—and when their breath stuttered and they spilled, thick and hot, over the hood of the Impala, they used their cum to write the sigils into the Impala's metal flesh, binding it to them and them to it. They both felt the flare of energy across their skin as the sigils settled and their seed disappeared.

Dean gave Sam a lopsided grin, sleepy and sated. Sam smiled back, blushing because, really? Right on the side of the road where anyone could see?

"Gotta short fuse there, Sammy," Dean teased. "You should work on that."

"Yeah right. You came first."

Dean made a sound of sad disbelief. "Whatever gets you through the night, man," he said before sliding back into the driver's seat.

"You're an asshole. You know that right?" Sam asked irritated but not truly upset.

Dean gave him this little secretive smile with a snarky eyebrow jerk before turning up the Zeppelin to extra loud. It was a good fucking day.

The feeling lasted less than thirty minutes.

It was a buzz in the air, a hum under the skin, a brush against his subconscious. He turned down his tape. "Sam?" The airhead had already lifted his head out of his current book and was feeling around. Dean didn't say anything, didn't give him any suggestions, because he wasn't sure if it was a true warning or something else. He was hoping for something else.

"What is that?" Sam asked and blew Dean's faint hope apart.

"Don't know, but I don't think it's good." He started rolling up his window and Sam quickly followed suit. He glanced in the rear-view but it was clear. "Before or behind?" he asked.

Sam shook his head. "It feels like it's all over," he said and then the Dust Storm closed in and it did come at them from all over: front, back, sides, even from above.

"Mother fuck—" Dean muttered before he whispered the spellword to activate the Impala's wards. They burst into life right before the first of the purple-black streamers hit the car. It didn't 'ping' like dirt and rocks did but made a soft 'scree', like metal on metal. They could feel the wards, built up over years, working to keep the evil out.

"C'mon, baby," Dean whispered and rubbed his hands on the steering wheel, lending the Impala some of his power. There were actual sparks, or maybe it was flames, where Dust met sigil. The sigil would flare and the Dust would recoil but there was too much of it and it soon came back.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam prayed. Dean understood. They were completely surrounded by the Dust Storm now. Inside the car it was black because no light was getting through. They were one hundred percent cut off and travelling down a road they couldn't see at sixty miles per hour.

" _Z mocą boga_ …" Sam invoked: with the power of God…

"Keep casting," Dean ordered. "No matter what." Then he shut his eyes and reached out with his senses, reassured by the calm power beside him…

" _Blokady i osłony_ …" Block and protect…

Dean tuned out Sam's low voiced spellwords and pictured the road in his mind. He'd driven this road a million times; he knew every curve and every bump. He didn't need to see it…

" _Ochrony naszego ciała_ …" Protect our bodies…

He used the Impala, finding and feeling the connection between her tires and the asphalt. Sam was bolstering her wards, keeping her strong…

" _Chronić nasze dusze_ …" Protect our souls…

He had it now; he could feel the warded cable tunnels lying underneath the road. Beside him Sam glowed with power…

" _Życzę wam prędkości_ …" I wish you speed…

He could feel the shift that indicated a turn. Sam pushed the energy into the Impala and Dean felt like Popeye after eating the spinach.

" _Życzę wam siły_ …" I wish you strength…

He put his foot down on the gas. They were close to a sigil line. Sam's voice gained confidence; he could feel it too.

" _My jesteśmy bezpieczni_." We are safe.

And they were over it. Its power swept over and through them and the Impala like a laser, sweeping away the Dust and the evil and trapping it behind the line. They both took a couple moments to breathe, to feel the relief at having escaped. Dean looked in the rear-view but Sam turned to stare through the window at the roiling cloud. It almost seemed to be reaching for them, trying to drag them back in.

"What the fuck, Dean?" Sam asked, voice ragged from adrenaline. "It set a fucking _trap_."

"How the hell should I know?" Dean's voice wasn't in any better shape. "I just fight the stuff; I don't try to understand it."

Sam looked at him, "Maybe we should start."

Dean took one last look at the malevolent cloud before pulling away, and couldn't quite disagree.


	5. The Chain

 

Their original intention for heading down to Ellen's was to see if she'd heard from their dad. Their friendship with the Harvelles went way back so, if John Winchester was going to confide in anybody, it would probably have been the family whose little roadside bar had grown into a full-blown settlement. Hunters from all over the plains used it as a central message post and Bobby had given them a small stack of letters to be distributed when they reached the Roadhouse.

Now, however, Dean wanted to talk to Ash and see if the tech-nerd could figure out what the hell was going on with the frigging Dust.

However, Ash had to wait just a little longer. First thing was to fuel up the Impala—premium with some expensive Castrol Valvemaster as a special treat because she totally deserved it. While he did that, Sam got out the chamois and gave her a rub down, muttering thanks and prayers only she could hear. Dean could feel his airhead co-pilot trying hard to reach her like he could, but it was like there was a film between them and Sam's gift couldn't connect with the vehicle. Still, the effort was worth something and the Impala gleamed a little brighter for the attention.

"When you gonna get rid of that monster?" asked a person Dean could live without. "I can get you a pretty little conversion model that doesn't need anything but the air around us."

"And tell me, Jeb, how fast does it go?" Dean sneered. "Top speed, come on."

Dexter made a face—his 'I'm trying to be cool but I'm so completely not' face. "Top speed is sixty. Not bad, right?"

Even Sam laughed. "Thanks anyway, man," the airhead said as he handed over the chits, "but we'll keep the Impala."

"Damn straight we will," Dean muttered and ran a possessive hand over her frame. He threw an anxious look beyond Jeb Dexter's car lot to the ward wall. It was getting dark and the compound was lit—dimly but it was still enough to mess with his night vision—so Dean couldn't tell if there was more Dust than usual out beyond the settlement's perimeter. He thought a couple times it had been following them but that was stupid because Dust, although smarter than your average bear, was still carried on the wind, right? And the wind wasn't controlled by anything but the earth's rotation and the temperature of the air and stuff.

Except, this wasn't the first time Dust had seemed in control of the environment and the stuff had staged an _ambush_.

He knew the Dust was actually demons without bodies, but up 'til now, its actions had been pretty random: find a weakness, exploit it, have fun until some hunter came along and exorcised its ass back to Hell.

But to set up a fucking _ambush_ …

"Dean," Sam said from the passenger side. "You gonna get in the car so we can park at the Roadhouse?"

A final glance and Dean got in the car. "Yeah. Let's go see what's new."

He pulled up beside the hunters' barracks, a two-story structure designed, they'd been told, by an ex-military guy. It was short on luxury but it had clean beds, showers and even a small laundry—perfect for hunters who spent most of their lives on the road. A little beyond it was the web of cabins and old mobile homes that made up the women's 'den'. Nominally Ellen was in charge of them. In reality she kept the place peaceful and clean and let them make their own decisions. She always said she had enough to do without taking on everybody's sex lives.

The barracks were located a short hop from the Roadhouse, which had started life as a one-room bar with a kitchen and had grown into a sprawling complex with a dining room, living quarters, a telegraph room and a post office.

The heart of it was still the dingy old bar…

They walked in and the smell hit them first: brew, blood and beer nuts. A deep breath (on Dean's part), a surreptitious cough (on Sam's) and they were in their second home.

It was full as usual and there were lots of known faces to acknowledge and a few he even shared happy greetings with. Over forty people lived full-time around the Roadhouse, making their homes in old campers and trailers, and Dean knew most of them. Of course he had his favorites…

"Dean! Sam!" Ellen called out over the crowd. "Get your asses over here." Dean apologized to Travis who rolled his eyes in sympathy. The hunter knew when Ellen called you answered.

When Dean got to the bar, the diminutive hunter was a foot in the air because Sam had lifted her into a hug, and she was sputtering at him because she hated when they did that. It reminded her she was actually a small woman. Of course, since Sam had done it, Dean had to pick her up too. She cursed him good naturedly but they were both grinning when he put her down.

That's when she gave him a good hard slap. The bar went quiet.

"The can of whoopass I oughta open on you," Ellen said. Dean looked at her in mute betrayal with one hand raised to his stinging cheek. "What are you, allergic to giving me peace of mind? You can't send me a message? I got to find out you fulfilled your Invite from Demian and Barnes?"

Oh.

"Sorry, Ellen," he said contritely. "I apologize…profusely." Her features didn't soften. " _Mea culpa_ ," he continued formally. " _Me paenitet_?"

She glared at him a second longer before giving a sharp nod. "That's alright then." Then she gave him a huge grin and a quick hug. "First one's on me." She turned to the bar. "Everyone, congratulate the new daddy-to-be."

He glared at Ellen as the men cheered and the women squealed and he was surrounded by back-slapping, bear-hugging, well-wishers.

She smirked, "Now I know next time you'll remember." Damn right he would, Dean thought.

Ellen moved back behind her bar and helped Jo pour the beer they brewed right here in the basement. As always he was struck by the similarities between mother and daughter, not so much in looks but in the tough confidence both of them had. They both knew their orders—hell, their suggestions—would be followed. He liked them; they were like the mother he could barely remember and the sister he never had.

That Jo was likely to ask him to take her virginity was an uncomfortable thought he pushed to the back like he always did.

Beside him Sam jumped. "Hello, grumpy." The voice was low and familiar as was the dark-haired, white-eyed beauty standing tucked close into the young hunter's side.

"Pamela, you grabbing Sam's butt again?" Dean asked even as he watched Sam reach back and peel her hand away.

She smiled, lush and inviting. "You know I can't resist his perky little ass." Then she leaned past Sam and latched onto Dean's mouth with her own. Dean could sense Sam waiting patiently, saying "hi" to some of the Roadhouse's regulars. Pamela's grope of greeting was SOP whenever they walked in the door, or it had become so after they saved her from a Dust Bunny that had gotten through the wall a few years ago.

She never took it further and they never pressed because, despite the fact that her girlfriend was fertile, Pamela and Jessie were solid together. The Winchesters would never try to come between that even though Dean never turned her away because, damn, the woman could kiss!

He let himself sink into it because he liked to kiss. He enjoyed the action of it; the give and take involved, the textures, the flavor even, and Sam—much as he loved the guy—tended to think of kissing as step one in his twelve-step make out program. Only Pamela enjoyed it the way he did and only since she'd lost her sight to a demon.

Sam cleared his throat. "I call time."

Pamela pulled away—she'd tasted of pear cider this time—and turned towards Sam's voice. "Don't worry. There's always lots to go around," then she kissed him. It lasted only seconds compared to the one she'd given Dean, but he knew she'd managed to curl her tongue into Sam's mouth. Like a snake, it was how she sensed things. "We're making beef pot pie if you want a change from burgers."

"Oh man," Dean whined, "Tough choice."

"Welcome to my world," she leered in their direction before flicking her towel at Sam's ass and walking away to the whistles and cat-calls of some of the more appreciative members of their audience.

Sam was blushing and Dean rolled his eyes. "All this time, she's been greeting us the same way and you still blush."

"I'm gonna go drop off the mail," the airhead said, waving the letters they'd been given. Phone service was okay, but it was expensive to get a line in because the cables had to be buried, and for whatever reason, copper attracted supernatural shit like nobody's business. Most of the smaller places didn't have satellite dishes to given them internet connections and hadn't bothered to lay phone lines, so people wrote letters instead and travelers passing through were always asked to take bundles of them on up the road. Like in that novel by David Brin, everybody helped to maintain what little remained of civilization in their post-Apocalyptic world.

"Well, drop 'em in the slots then come get your beer." Dean said before turning to the crowd. It didn't take him long to find a friendly table and join the conversation.

Around the corner in the mail room, Sam took advantage of the quiet emptiness to get himself under control.

It wasn't Pamela with her quick hands and soft lips that made him blush. It was knowing how it felt to have Dean's lips on his that way. As Sam Winchester, Dean's baby brother, he really shouldn't know that. There weren't many taboos left. Rape would get you killed. Child abuse got you shunned. Incest? People wouldn't say anything but they'd look at you sideways, talk to you funny. Talk about you too much. Just look at Roy and Walt Debney; there was always gossip and speculation about them.

Him and Dean? They didn't need that kind of attention.

The post office was nothing but a bunch of stacked crates, each box assigned a letter of the alphabet. People threw the letters and packages into them or took them out depending. Sam quickly sorted through the stack of letters before checking for any mail for them. 'W' for Winchester unearthed a small but heavy package. It was probably the special ammo John had asked Caleb for a half dozen months back. He checked the label: it was from Caleb.

Bobby had told them Caleb was dead; killed in his shop by thieves, they were saying. Thieves who'd set fire to the place and disappeared before the next door neighbors arrived. Sam wasn't sure he believed it. Caleb was another guy who'd been a fixture in their lives, like Jim. He ran his fingers over the label before putting the package back in the box.

There were a couple letters for Dean in the 'D' section. One from a hunter from Brooklyn with whom Dean had struck up an unlikely friendship. Richie was his name. He'd come out here as a tourist and stayed because it suited him. He'd never lost his accent though. Dean always got a kick out of his letters because they were so filled with slang and riddled with rambling sidebars it took the tinman hours to decipher. The second one was addressed in crabby block letters with the faint hint of hydraulic fluid clinging to it. Another tinman, Sam figured but he didn't recognize the name. Finally he sifted through the over-full 'S' box. Sara, Sheldon… _Sheldon?_ Poor guy, Sam sympathized and then he found a couple slim envelopes addressed to him.

Andy had written and Sam couldn't help but smile. Andy was the nicest, most easy-going person Sam had ever met. He was in all ways—energy and attitude—an airhead, able to find the smile in even the worst situation… usually with the help of recreational drugs. Too bad his twin brother was creepy and possessive as hell, glowering at anybody who got too close or talked too long. Ansem seemed like the kind of guy who would kill you without blinking. Andy didn't notice, or maybe he thought it was safer for everyone if he pretended not to notice. He was probably right.

Sam tucked that letter in his pocket to enjoy later before looking at the other one.

This envelope was slightly pink, and except for his name and 'Harvelle's Roadhouse, Nebraska' written in tidy script, completely unmarked. Didn't matter; he knew who it was from. It was another Invitation from Lilith in New York, which made this the fourth in as many months.

Shit, what was Dean gonna say?

"Is it poisoned or something?" a soft voice asked from beside him. "The way you're staring at it, you'd think it was a bomb." Sam looked down and saw a cute little blond, pixie haircut, full mouth and big eyes that glinted with wicked humor. It went with the tight clothes, far tighter than most women around here wore. He couldn't help but wonder if she could dig out post holes in those pants but decided she could probably do whatever she wanted—it was all in what you got used to.

He couldn't help but smile back. "Nah, just… I know what it says."

"And you don't want to hear it," she finished for him. Her lips quirked, "I know how that goes. I love my mother, and my aunts, and I know they want what's best for me but they don't care if I want it too. So I go my own way instead."

Sam stared at her, frowning a little because that was a little bit more information than strangers usually shared, even out here. She seemed to realize she'd said too much because she looked away, embarrassed. "I'm sorry. The things you say to people you hardly know"

Sam smiled at her reassuringly, "I get it. Sometimes strangers are the only ones you can talk to."

She held out her hand, "I'm Meg."

"Sam," Sam's heart rate kicked up a notch as he took her tiny hand in his. "So, what? Are you on some kind of vacation or something?"

She laughed and her face lit up, "Yeah, right. It's all sipping Cristal poolside for me."

"Cr-crystal?" He asked because she pronounced it funny so he wasn't sure she was talking about the same thing he's picturing.

Sure enough she gave him a look but she did explain. "It's champagne. The top brand still operating in France."

"Ah," he laughed awkwardly. "Not much call for champagne out here."

She laughed along, "I guess not. It's pretty Frontierland."

"Yeah, it's rough," he agreed still with the awkwardness.

She stopped laughing, although the smile still played around her mouth. "That's okay. Sometimes I like it rough."

Sam was used to women who made it plain what they wanted, that's the way the world worked, but for some reason that tone—a dark coo—seemed wrong coming from such a delicate looking female and the contrast was very… tempting. Still, it was up to her to make the next move so he waited, smiling faintly, hoping he looked interested but not too eager. He didn't want her escort getting nervous even though, at Ellen's a woman alone should be safe enough.

Wait… his thoughts backtracked.

"Uh," he looked around and didn't see a guy hovering protectively. "You have somebody with you, right?"

"Of course. My brother Tom is acting as my bodyguard. He's not a hunter or anything but he knows some moves." She looked at him a little closer. "You were worried about me. Aw, that's adorable. How 'bout I buy you a beer, Sam Winchester, and we can discuss what things are better refined… and what's better rough."

He followed her into the bar and Sam automatically looked for Dean. The tinman had a couple bottles in front of him and his hands were weaving in the air as he told some story. It wouldn't be about his time with Carmen as Dean never went into details about his bed partners. Sam figured that was Pastor Jim's influence because Dean didn't bother being shy about much else. Likely it was about the fight with the Bunnies on the road to Colorado because he would look good in that story.

Wow, he thought astonished, that had been nearly a month ago.

"My brother's just over there." Meg pointed to a slim dark haired man sitting at a table in the corner with his back to the wall. He was flat-eyed and dangerous and Meg's description of him 'knowing some moves' suddenly seemed woefully understated.

"I'm gonna grab the beer," he said, stabbing his thumb toward the bar. "Three, right?"

"Um yeah, sure," she agreed. She smiled brightly but there was still that dark glint in her eye. Sam smiled back and stepped away. He went to the bar, feeling the blonde's eyes upon him the whole way. He picked up four bottles and detoured past Dean, setting one of the bottles in front of the older hunter and waving vaguely in Meg's direction so he'd know where Sam was. Dean's eyes tightened slightly, his chin lifted and Sam knew he'd understood the message.

At the table Sam passed out the beer and shook Tom's hand. It was rough with calluses… like Dean's, like his.

'A few moves' his ass.

"So where you from?" he asked from around his bottle, head tipped back to hide his expression.

"East of course," she replied with a flirtatious smile, "but it's too settled. They have museums and shops and the ward walls are far, far away."

"You say it like it's a bad thing."

She shifted on her chair, leaning forward and crossing her legs so one 'accidently' brushed up against his. "It's kind of boring, y'know?" She scrunched up her nose in a way that should've been cute and half was-half wasn't. "Out here, life is more…primal. Any day can turn into an adventure." She dragged a finger lightly over the back of his hand. "A chance to experience something new…"

He blushed and shifted his hand. She just smiled and moved on to tracing patterns on the table with a delicate fingertip. "So tell me about life out here," she said. "What do you do for fun?"

"I'm a hunter."

Her eyebrows went up in surprise. "Really? You look far too…"

"What?"

One slim shoulder rose and fell. "I dunno," she hemmed. "Intelligent or something."

He chuckled stiffly because it wasn't quite a compliment. "Hunters aren't cavemen," he finally said. "It takes brains and skill and knowledge to do what hunters do out here."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to offend." She quirked her head prettily. "Next beer's on me." She lifted her chin at her brother and Tom obediently walked over to the bar for another round.

"Do you hunt alone?" she asked. "I mean, I heard it's standard for hunters to work in pairs."

It was a safe question and Sam could feel some of his tension drain away. "Pairs are the norm—one airhead, one tinman—but there are trios, even whole teams. Then there are a few solo hunters but they're usually older guys who were doing this before the Storm. It was different then." He was about to launch into the history of hunting, comparing past to present, but Meg interrupted him.

"Who do you hunt with?" She took the bottle from her brother, running her hand over it so the condensation pooled on the table.

"With my brother, Dean," Sam answered. "He's the pilot." Meg looked at him. "He drives the car," Sam explained.

"Let me guess: he's a tinman." She said it with a smile and an undertone of… contempt, like being a tinman was a bad thing.

"He's a great tinman," he defended. "A great guy."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah I'm sure. A great protector, right? I bet there's a lot of things you want to do that he won't let you."

Sam said nothing because it was kind of true. She leaned forward, finger tracing idly through the water on the table. "From what I've read, tinmen aren't adventurous or even accepting of new ideas. It's that old 'if it's not broke don't change it' philosophy."

"He's not like that," he said but Dean kind of was, sometimes. He didn't like being east of the Mississippi, and the idea of going to a big city always made him tense and snappish.

"He's got his routine is all," he heard himself say. "We all have our routines."

"There's something you want to do, isn't there," she said and her voice was so soft and kind Sam found himself telling her a lot more than he'd ever planned on. Stuff that, even to his own ears, sounded whiny and spoiled. He told her about wanting to go east and visit the museums, but not about Dean giving him their last slice of pizza or piece of cake. He told Meg how Dean listened to the same ten tapes over and friggin' _over_ again but not how long he'd spent finding just the right stones and metals for the protective bracelet Sam wore.

Dean was his father's perfect son: the little soldier, obedient and unthinking. Not like Sam who questioned everything, wanted to know why…

Meg was great about letting some stranger offload on her. She made supportive noises at appropriate points and let him talk. It was strange how, the more he talked, the angrier he became. He'd always heard that talking about the things that bugged you was supposed to help but it wasn't. The more he thought about it, the more unfair it seemed that they always did what Dean wanted.

"So why don't you come back East with me?" she asked softly.

The question reverberated in Sam's mind. Why didn't he go east? It's not like he was a kid and needed looking after. And Dean was an adult. He'd find another co-pilot. Hell, he'd have airheads fighting for the chance to ride with him—an unsettling thought that faded away before it became a problem. After all, it would only be temporary, just until he'd seen the sights and explored the world out there instead of always circling the same Midwestern dirt holes and shacks he'd known his whole life.

He could see the bar lights gleaming off her fingernail polish as it moved over the table, smooth and clean and pretty… just like living on the East Coast would be. He knew it.

"Hey Sammy. Gonna introduce me?" Dean dropped his beer and a plate of nachos on the table nearly on top of Meg's finger.

The blonde jumped back, and Sam felt a jolt like he hadn't been breathing for a while. Dean poked him with his elbow and raised his eyebrows. In his hand was another plate and on it was a thick, fresh, grilled chicken sandwich. There would be no pickles, Sam knew, but there would be sweet onions and the grainy mustard he liked but Dean couldn't stand.

It would be perfect.

He looked up into warm green eyes that understood him and _knew_ him, and accepted him as is. Sam cleared his throat. "Dean, this is Meg and her brother Tom." Dean held out his hand to the male but waited for Meg to offer hers. The offer didn't come so Dean smiled his patented 'so nice to meet you' smile and sat down.

"Help yourself to the food," he said. "It's been a few hours since Sasquatch here ate anything substantial so I figured, if I was going to save the furniture, I needed to bring him something." The older hunter pulled some of the cheesy mass out of the pile and put it in his mouth. He didn't bother closing it while he chewed. It was a deliberate insult considering there was a woman at the table.

Meg blinked. "What are you, his mother?"

"Meg and her brother are from back east," Sam hastily said in an attempt to break the tension then could've kicked himself because back east was a touchy subject between them. He stared down at his plate feeling vaguely guilty at all the things he'd told Meg.

"Is that right?" Dean smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "What're a couple city slickers doing way out here?"

Meg had regained her poise and leered at the hunter before her eyes slid over to Sam. "Maybe we're looking for gifts we can take back home with us."

"Better shopping on the west coast," Sam interrupted. "They get stuff in from Asia still."

She sneered. "Imported crap. What I'm looking for is purely home grown and grade A." Her eyes ran over Sam like he was stripped and on stage or something. It made him very uncomfortable.

"Good taste," Dean said, "but you'll have to fight Pamela for him." Dean barked out a laugh at his joke, letting them all see his half-chewed food.

Meg recoiled. "Dude, your mouth!" There was a look of such furious disgust on her face it would've been comical if it hadn't been slightly scary. Her brother looked ready to pull out a weapon and attack.

The older hunter wiped his chin with his fist, smearing the grease. "Sorry," he said.

Sam knew he didn't mean it and he was pretty sure Meg knew it too.

" _Buenos días_ , bitches," Ash said from over Sam's shoulder. He leaned forward and snagged Sam's beer before draining it in one big gulp and finishing with a burp that echoed.

Meg's look of disgust deepened and she jerked her head at her brother in silent command. She narrowed her eyes at Dean before visibly putting him out of her mind. "It was nice meeting _you._ Sam," she said as she held out her hand to him. The smile she turned on Sam was over-large and over-familiar, but he shook her hand as he was expected to do. "Hopefully we'll meet again… someplace quieter." She glared at Ash then swept away followed by Tom with his flat, dark glower.

"Was it something I said?" Ash asked, grabbing Meg's old seat and some nachos in the same liquid motion.

Ash was a fixture at the Roadhouse. He'd wandered in from somewhere: no car, no co-pilot, just his brains and a bag full of computer parts. Ellen had set him up in a small storage room and he'd been there ever since. He was a genius, everyone knew that, but he was also obnoxious, oblivious and crude.

He and Dean got along very well.

"Who was that?" Dean asked, closing his mouth over the remains of his snack.

"Meg Masters," Ash answered, "from Maine or so her record says. I can't find anything on her 'brother'." He was finishing up the absent pair's beers now. "They've been here a few days, rented a camper out back from Olivia." Olivia Landry had hauled in several abandoned campers and trailers from other places. Since they had no water and no heat, the only ones who used them were couples and people with things to hide. "I don't like her."

"Turned you down?" Dean asked with a smile.

"Flat as a bug."

Dean chuckled but his eyes were serious. "She was mesmerizing Sam."

"What? No!" Sam blurted, "I mean, she was cute and smart but—"

"Not that kind of mesmerizing, dough brain," Dean said impatiently. "She was casting a spell. All that dragging her finger around on the table? Those were sigils or something." The three of them looked at the surface of the table but the water had broken into drops and it was impossible to see anything.

"You can't do spell work with water," Ash stated with a shrug as he lifted Tom's abandoned beer to his mouth.

"I know what I saw. I've watched Sam draw them enough times to know what they look like."

"Maybe it's an eastern thing," Sam suggested, feeling stupid because he hadn't recognized what Meg was doing. He picked at his sandwich but that only made him feel worse because Dean had remembered his _sprouts_ , for god's sake, and he'd been thinking of ditching him.

"Well, they certainly act like Easterners," Ash said, "all condescending and shit. As if we don't even speak English out here." Neither Dean nor Sam made a comment about Ash's accent which was sometimes thick enough to qualify as another language.

He'd told her a lot of things he kept secret: small resentments and minor hurts. The kind of stuff that builds up over a lifetime but doesn't actually mean anything in the end. He was just glad that's all he said because he could've revealed bigger secrets— _the_ secret—and that would've been very, very bad. How had he not seen it?

"Sam, that food isn't going to do you any good on the plate. Pick it up and eat it already."

Sam picked up his sandwich and took a bite. He'd guessed right. It was perfect: thick slices of fresh bread, lightly toasted; a hint of home-cured ham, smoky and dark; old cheddar to add a sharp edge, and the chicken had been marinated in something. Freaking heavenly. He nearly moaned aloud.

"So she thinks she's doing us a favor by coming out here?" Dean shoveled another huge lump of greasy meat and cheese into his mouth. This time he chewed with his mouth closed.

"Yeah, that's about the attitude," Ash drawled his agreement. "She reminds me of some of the people I met back east. Snooty bitches of both sexes."

"You spent time out East?" Sam asked, hastily wiping his mouth. He knew he looked stunned, which was hardly flattering to Ash, but he couldn't help it.

"Went to school out there," he confirmed. "Worst years of my life."

"Is it like what they show on TV?"

"TV rots your brain," Ash said with self-righteous pride and they all laughed. Ash had a TV set in his room and they knew he loved watching the 'brain rotting' crap if only to make fun of the stars. "It's crowded and superficial," Ash continued. "I never once thought I got a full and honest reaction from anybody out there. Young Miss Masters would fit in perfect, yessiree."

Sam took another bite and lost himself in the enjoyment of something that wasn't fried, deep-fried or smothered in cheap gravy.

"Sam," Dean turned to him, "you were the one she was interested in. What's your take on her?"

Sam hastily chewed and swallowed. "I didn't even see her casting the sigils but she seemed harmless… For the most part."

"You wanted to fuck her," Ash said and scooped up some salsa on a limp chip.

Dean's eyebrow went up and Sam squirmed uncomfortably, blushing. "Yeah, kinda. I guess," he admitted. "But part of me thinks it would be a bad idea."

"She definitely has that Black Widow vibe," Ash shivered dramatically.

It made Sam chuckle because Ash, for all his avowed cowardice, was one of the toughest men he'd ever met. Sam had seen him take on three drunken hunters who were messing up the bar. He hadn't won—other guys had stepped in and tossed the drunks out—but he hadn't been smeared on the floor either.

"Enough with the ice queen," Dean said, putting his empty bottle down with a thunk. "We need you to use your mojo on some data Sam's compiled. Might have something to do with why Dad disappeared and the Storm and everything. We don't know but maybe you can figure out a pattern."

Sam knew Ash was their friend when he didn't laugh at them. The smaller man grunted and said "Okay, show me what you got."

Which was how they ended up in Ash's back room with a cooler filled with beer and a table covered in paper. It struck Dean that the room was like the guy's hair. On the one side, the party side, there were posters for some of the worst monster movies ever made, low slung furniture with animal print covers and a ratty old fake fur rug. There was even a velvet Elvis on the wall. On the other side, the business side, it was metal shelves, delicate tools and tiny pieces in neatly labeled drawers. Everything not being used was put away and there wasn't a crumb or a beer cap anywhere on that side.

"Which school did you go to?" he asked out of sudden curiosity.

Ash dropped into his favorite chair before answering, "MIT. You may have heard of it." His drawl was extra-thick as he said it.

Dean shook his head because he should have known. "It's a school just outside of Dubuque, right?" he mocked with eyes as wide as they'd go.

"I thought MIT was shutting down," Sam asked from where he was setting up at the table.

"Are you kidding? In a world where everything has to be rediscovered, reinvented or reengineered, MIT is booming. Most of their graduates stay on the coast or head over to Europe though. Don't want to risk breaking a nail, the pansy-asses."

"Let me guess," Dean said as he held out a beer. "Kicked out for fighting."

"They made fun of my hair," Ash explained and Dean laughed. "Never make fun of a man's hair, dude."

"Okay," Sam said once they'd settled down. He was pointing at an old map he'd claimed from Bobby. "This is the US pre-1980. Lots of roads, lots of towns, lots of people." Dean looked at it and grimaced. It looked like a freaking spider web. Sam put down a clear overlay onto which he'd carefully drawn a map of the current United States. Much cleaner and simpler: dots here and there with usually only one line in and one line out.

"Why that's real pretty there, Sam," Ash teased.

"Eat me."

"Anytime. You know I'm only waiting for an Invite." Dean chuckled and tipped his bottle when Ash looked for appreciation.

Sam glared at them. "These are the places that survived the Storm the best: Manning, Carthage, Guthrie, Sioux Falls, Blue Earth, Peoria—" Ash circled his finger in the universal code for Get On With It. Sam grimaced but complied. "All these spots were either places where hunters made their homes or where the best airheads were born."

That made Ash straighten in his seat. "Huh." He leaned over the map taking it in with a glance. "Lawrence?" he looked up at the tall hunter.

"Aside from Missouri living there, our mom's parents, the Campbells, made it their home and they were hunters," he explained.

"No shit. I didn't know that."

"Neither did we until recently," Dean said. There had been a box in amongst Pastor Jim's stuff at the church. It had belonged to their dad and had been filled with memorabilia from his past and their mom's past; pictures of family members, letters and diaries, and recipes for ghost dispelling hex bags and vampire anti-venom.

Ash rubbed his chin. "So why do you figure these places?"

"Well… hunters have always protected their homes from supernatural dangers and the Storm was definitely supernatural."

"I thought it was melting polar ice caps," Ash drawled. They all snickered. Even if they didn't think it was the Apocalypse from the Bible, most hunters accepted the Storm hadn't had natural beginnings either. "So how do the über-airheads fit in?"

"We don't know," Sam confessed, "but this is where Andy and Ansem were born." He pointed to a dot on his map then shifted it to another. "Max Millar. Ava Wilson."

Ash waved his hand to stop the list. "So all the hometowns of all the superstars of spellwording were spared?"

Sam nodded. "Their homes might have been ruined but their streets, their neighborhoods, their _towns_ were essentially untouched."

"Eyewitnesses talk about the storm approaching and literally swerving around the outskirts," Dean added. "We even got to see a Super-8 film. Freaky ass stuff."

"Huh," Ash repeated. "What does it mean?"

"Damned if we know," Sam said with a small laugh. He ran his hand through his hair, tugging it back from his head. "We've looked at the figures and talked to all the airheads we could get to."

"About ten or eleven years ago," Dean picked up, "just before the Surge, the Feds went around and either grabbed kids who turned out to be strong airheads or killed them."

"You got no proof the Feds killed anyone," Ash said.

"Not true," Dean argued. "You met Max Miller?" Ash nodded. "As an airhead, he was fantastic. As a human being, he made Ansem Gallagher look stable. We know that Feds tried to take him, and when he fought back, they killed him."

Ash frowned. "How do you know?"

Dean shifted, glanced at Sam who glared at him. Sam didn't want him to say, didn't want anyone else to know, but this was important. They'd never find the truth without being honest with the people helping them. He shrugged an apology at his partner. "Sam saw it in a vision. He recognized Pete Sheridan who used to work in the Fed's Detroit office."

"Sam has visions, huh," Ash said in a neutral voice. He waited until Sam gave one short nod before turning back to the main issue. "So the Feds collected über-airheads, they collect all sorts of gifted kids. What does it mean?" Dean looked at Sam who looked at Ash who looked at both of them. "So data but no theories and nothing to go on but a vague sense of 'ooo, a plane crashed here'." Ash wrapped up. Once again, they had to agree.

Ash nodded once. "Okay, now it's my turn."

The tech-nerd stood up, still steady despite all the alcohol, and moved over to his computer system. It was impressive by anyone's standards. Cobbled together from parts scrounged from wherever, Ash had linked four Pentiums so they worked in tandem. "I've added some more RAM," he said proudly when Dean commented on it. "And reworked the modem so it runs at 33.6k. Not bad for some backwoods hacker, right?"

"You're awesome," Dean agreed and his fingers itched to get in there and dig around but he hadn't been invited.

"You've got icons now," Sam said as the system booted and little pictures appeared on the screen.

"Graphic User Interface, _and_ on my UNIX 2.2 OS."

Sam looked at him blankly. "That means it's point and click, right?"

Ash looked at Dean in despair. Dean shrugged. "He's an airhead," he said as if that explained everything and it kinda-sorta did but Dean knew how his partner felt too. The tinman liked computers, he admired the usefulness of the 'Net, and he liked the intricacies of their design, but Dean would never be a tech-nerd like Ash.

Ash sighed. "Yes, Sam, it's point and click. Have a seat. I also have visual aids for _my_ show and tell…" The two Winchesters crowded around the central screen. "Okay, so a couple months back your dad came in—"

"Our dad came here?" Sam interrupted. Ash nodded. "Did he say anything? What did he want?"

"If you give me a second, I'll tell you." He stared at Sam until he shut his mouth. "Alrighty then. Your dad came in a couple months ago with a list of events he thought he had a pattern for. He hasn't come back for it but I _did_ find one. It's the Number of the Beast."

Dean blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The Number of the Beast. It's usually translated as 666, but if you use the _Codex Ephraemi Rescriptus_ instead of the King James Bible, it's 616. Coincidentally, 616 is also 56 times 11."

"Fifty-six?" Sam asked. "Is that significant."

"According to some saint—Martin I think—fifty-six represents the universe returning to its source and it's supposed to be fucking terrifying for those who live through it."

Dean looked at his partner and grimaced. He hated symbolism. "And eleven?"

Eleven years ago we had the Surge, when the Americas and Europe were almost completely cut off from each other by the Dust, right?" They both nodded. "That was 1994. Eleven years before that, in 1983…"

"The Storm," they both said.

"Right. Eleven years before that?"

"1972," Dean answered, eyes widening in comprehension. He swatted Sam's arm. "Remember in Mom's journal? She talked about tracking the yellow-eyed monster in and around Lawrence—"

"—in 1972," Sam finished. "Holy shit."

"In '61 there was the Bay of Pigs fiasco which essentially revealed half the government agencies were working towards some unsanctioned—and unspecified—goal. 1950 was the start of the McCarthy witch hunts—major brain drain; 1939 Germany invades Poland," Ash twirled his hand to indicate the cycle went on. "All the way back to 1389."

"What happened in 1389?"

"Background first." Ash took a sustaining swig of beer. "The Catholic Church was split and there were two Popes; one in Rome and the other in Avignon, France. They were busy fighting and excommunicating each other. The European leaders acted like little kids; if you couldn't get what you wanted from one, you went to the other and told 'em you liked them best, and with a little cash reinforcement, you'd get what you wanted." They all smirked because they'd all tried it on their parents a time or two.

"In 1389, on November 2 to be exact," Ash held up his hand to stop them from breaking in. "In 1389, a new pope is declared in Rome: Pope Boniface IX. Nobody's sure how he managed it, the guy was barely literate, and his dedication to the doctrine was… superficial at best. Once established as Pope, he proceeded to a) deepen the schism between the churches; b) piss off nearly everybody with his greed and lack of tact; c) taint people's belief in the church with the sale of Indulgences."

"Those were like passes for sinning, weren't they?" Sam asked.

"Gold star!" Ash answered. "Buy your forgiveness ahead of time and sin with peace of mind."

"Martin Luther," Dean blurted out, "and Protestantism."

"Exactly," the tech-nerd confirmed. "What ol' Bonny did led directly to the splintering of Christianity—violent splinters too. Back then it meant pitchforks and bonfires, but even nowadays the various denominations don't agree on much. Given the lack of friendship between them all, how would they coordinate a defense against demonic invasion?"

"You…" Sam stumbled. " _You_ believe this is the End Times?"

Ash grimaced in discomfort, he drained the last of his beer to delay answering, but Sam was patient. Finally, the tech-nerd caved, "I didn't. But now…" he waggled his hand indecisively.

"Holy shit," Sam said. "Holy effing shit." He collapsed back into his chair. He looked at Dean but Dean didn't know how to respond either. Dad was right? Except…

"If it is the Apocalypse," Dean broke in, "isn't Heaven supposed to weigh in? I don't know about you but I've never seen an angel out there fighting anything."

He looked over at Sam, sitting quiet on his chair, beer held loose and forgotten in his hand. The airhead was pale and his eyes were filled with dark thoughts. Dean's eyes narrowed; there was some unhappy theory percolating around in his co-pilot's geek brain, he knew it. He needed to wrap this up and get Sam under cover. He leaned forward, placing his empty on Ash's pristine worktable. "That's a great collection of facts," he said, "but how does that help us find our dad?"

"I would've thought stopping the Apocalypse would've been top priority," Ash mocked.

"Second on the list," Dean chuckled, "Maybe third, after banging Angelina Jolie."

Ash laughed in agreement. "Man, I'd love to get an Invite to her Den. Or Julia Roberts'. She has some hot females under her wing."

"I like Cate Blanchett. She's smart, tough _and_ sexy." Sam weighed in and they all agreed that The Cate would be a _fine_ bed partner.

Dean was relieved to see Sam joining in with them, pulling out of whatever funk he'd slipped into. He was also glad the conversation had become the familiar 'who'd you bang'. It was comforting and normal and didn't involve life-altering, world-threatening information in any way. It was also an easy conversation to slip out of. He finished up the last of the pot pie Jo had delivered some time ago by wiping the sauce on his jeans—laundry tomorrow anyway—and held up his hands. "Okay, okay. That's enough of these useless porno fantasies. It's been a long friggin' day and I need a shower and then sleep."

"Gettin' old, Winchester," Ash teased. Dean flipped him off and they were done. He and Sam grabbed their empties and put them in one of the crates kept by the door for that purpose.

"Hey, Sam" Ash called holding up the empty dishes. Sam rolled his eyes but walked over to grab them anyway. Ash didn't let go. "You were born in 1983, weren't you?" Sam said nothing and Dean knew it was a giveaway.

"Yeah, yeah he was," Dean said into the stillness. "Six months before the Storm hit."

Ash let go of the dishes and Sam clasped them protectively to his chest. Whether he was protecting them or they were protecting him was up for debate.

"All those airheads whose homes weren't touched during the Storm, they were born in 1983 weren't they?" The Winchesters said nothing. "And in 1994 those airheads were the ones collected by the Feds, or maybe by the things in the Dust, but you're here, so that means they missed a few. Maybe you oughta be careful."

"We're always careful," Sam replied and Ash snorted.

"That little blonde who was making up to you—"

"Meg," Sam supplied.

"She's not out here sight-seeing." Ash paused, looking at each of them in turn. "She's a Hunter just like you. And so the question is…"

"What is she hunting," Dean finished.

"Or _who_." Ash said with a hard look at Sam then he took another swig from his beer and turned back to his computer. Dean looked at Sam, who looked as worried as he felt, and they left Ash's room in silent, roiling anxiety.

The bar was full. The yard was busy. The bunkhouse wasn't empty either. Of course, they ended up in the Impala. Sam threw some sigils up muttering " _obscurum, tacitum, caecum_ _."_ 'Unheard, unhearing, unseen'—a spell designed to hide a conversation. No one would be able to listen in and no one would be able to read their lips. Their dad had developed it… the paranoid bastard.

"Ash is putting it together," Sam said as soon as he felt the Impala seal them in.

"He's trying hard not to, but yeah," Dean agreed. "He's only got part of it though."

Sam nodded. "Powerful airhead, born in 1983, mother killed by a yellow-eyed thing… I'd be one of the kids, _those_ kids."

"Anybody could figure that part out, Sam," Dean reassured him. "Everyone knows our story. It's not like we're exactly invisible around here, but it does explain why Henrikson's always on us to join the Homies. If they grabbed all the other kids then they'd want you to complete their collection."

"Nice," Sam said sarcastically. Dean smirked in reply. "The question is what do they want with me? I'm just an airhead."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You're more than that. Before you could even form sentences you were doing spellwords and making shit happen. You had precogni-whatsit, visions."

"Precognitive" Sam supplied. He'd seen Pastor Jim burning in his little church, and he'd seen Max Miller buy it, knifed down in the street after the Homies had decided he was too unstable.

"You can move physical things with your airbending, and sometimes you do shit with just your mind, which still weirds me out by the way."

"It only happened the once when you were in danger," Sam pointed out but the thought didn't make him happy. "I'm a freak."

"Well yeah. You chose _Polish_ as your spell language," Dean said as if that trumped everything else. "But you're still Sam. You still blush when Pamela slips you tongue. You still geek out over old books. You still rescue kittens from trees. You're _my_ Sam and like I said, if you're a freak, I'm a freak too."

Sam had to smile in return because it was true. Dean had his own unexplainable powers. A tinman who could heal with his touch? A guy who could see energies running through things and people as easily as other people saw paved highways. A hunter who could move as fast as the things they hunted. They weren't normal, either one of them, and they never had been. Which brought Sam's thoughts back to the catalyst…

"And Meg?" He turned to look at his co-pilot, his lover. What explains Meg? She knew my last name, but I never told it to her."

Dean shrugged. "You're hardly a tiny wallflower, Sam. 'Who's the tall studly guy,' she asks. Everybody's gonna know who she's asking about."

It was a compliment but Sam frowned. "Showing up now, looking for me, trying to get me to talk, tell her my secrets—"

" _Our_ secrets," Dean corrected.

"Our secrets."

"Maybe she works for Lilith. That Queen B has been bugging you for months."

Sam held up the latest Invite.

"Another one?" Dean said and then shook his head in disgust. "Man, she doesn't know how to take no."

"She could be part of… whatever this is."

Dean made a face that could've been agreement. "So the real question is; what is 'this'? Aside from something we don't want to be a part of."

"During Jessica's rescue, that Bunny, he recognized me."

"He didn't recognize you," Dean scoffed but it was hollow.

"He looked right at me, his eyes turned black, and he said I was supposed to be dead. How is that not recognizing me?" He stared at Dean, daring him to lie to his face again. "And that's not the first time either. There was that hunt in Fitchburg, when we were teenagers. That Bunny standing on the other side of the wards, pointing at me."

"It wasn't—" Dean began. Sam threw out a hand, cutting him off.

"Don't tell me 'it wasn't'. You and Dad and Jim, you all had this real intense conversation when I told you and I heard a lot of it." Dean nodded; he knew Sam had overheard them. "Y'all became so over-protective I wanted to scream."

"You took off." Dean's voice was quiet, not accusing or angry, but still with the hint of the panic he'd felt when he'd woken up and Sam had been gone. "It took us a week to find you." Sam had already apologized for that, for scaring Dean so bad. For his part Dean had toned down the mother hen routine but the whole encounter had solidified his partner's innate need to protect the ones he loved.

"So, given what's happened, and since I know most of it, don't you think it's time you finally tell me the rest?"

Dean tensed. He obviously knew what was coming, but Sam waited until the tinman had turned his full attention on him before asking, once again, the question he'd been asking since that day. "What did the woman say when she gave me to you?"

This time, Dean told him.


	6. Summer Breeze

  


The next day was bright and clear despite the scary, gloomy note on which the previous night had finished. It was also remarkably domestic. For some reason they never did their laundry at Bobby's, even though he had a perfectly good wringer-washer, or maybe _because_ he had a perfectly good wringer-washer. Here at Ellen's, she'd at least installed the latest water-efficient front loaders from Asia _and_ she had actual dryers, although travellers were encouraged to use the clothes lines as gas had to be paid for and convertors had to be maintained but the great outdoors did not.

Dean was pinning up their shirts, humming some slow moving Lynyrd Skynyrd, and enjoying the warmth of the sun.

Sam had been pulled into the women's compound because one of their sons, Michael Fitch, was turning out to be a talented airhead and none of the women here were all that good at casting except for Pamela who couldn't see to correct the boy's sigils. It was the perfect activity for the big geek, Dean mused, because one thing Sammy liked to do was explain stuff, in great detail, to anyone who would listen.

It was also a good place for Sam to avoid Meg Masters and her not-so-helpless brother. Since she wasn't part of Ellen's Den, she wouldn't be allowed into the compound. Children were rare and too precious to allow unknowns close. Sam would be safe there.

He saw Jo walking over to him… by herself and out in the open. He frowned in disapproval. He knew she carried a gun in a side holster and a knife at her ankle but she was still taking a risk. He looked around, seeking potential threats even though the day was calm.

"It's the middle of the day," she said before he could open his mouth. "Ash put together a tracking system and we carry transmitters at all times, plus Dad's watching from the back window." Bill returned her wave. "I'm perfectly safe. Now can I get a proper hello instead of just a smirk in passing?"

"You know you can, darlin'," he answered, finally smiling as he opened his arms and lifted her up in a hug. "You've gained weight," he said as he put her down.

She hit him. "I've _grown_ , you ass, at least an inch." He smiled. She grabbed the other end of the blanket and held it while he pinned. "So where you guys been? You haven't been here in ages."

"We had some jobs up north, in Wisconsin, Wyoming, then out to Colorado and back to Kansas. You know how it goes." Jo nodded because she did know; her father—Ellen's actual husband from before the Storm—was a hunter too.

Or had been until the Roadhouse became so busy. Now he mostly hung around, helping Ellen wrangle all the hopeful Sires and protecting his godchildren.

"I heard your Dad's gone missing," she said after a time.

Dean shrugged. "Hard to go missing when the world's so small but, yeah, he's making it tough for us to run into him."

"Hmm," she responded neutrally. She grabbed a pair of his boxers from the basket and pinned them. She didn't seem concerned by the action but to Dean it was more intimate than his kiss with Pamela. "I imagine Ash told you he came through here a couple months ago." It wasn't a question but Dean made an affirmative noise. "I heard him talking to Mom and Dad one night."

"You mean you were eavesdropping."

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Do you want to know what they were talking about?"

"Do you really think you'll be able to keep it secret much longer?" He was laughing openly now. "I know you, Joanna Beth, and it's busting you not to tell me."

She glared at him but told him anyway… as expected. "They were talking about this gun."

"Ooo, hunters talking about a gun."

This time she punched him with feeling unlike the little love tap earlier. "You're an ass, you know that? It was a special gun; a legendary gun a lot of people don't believe exists. The story is in 1835, when Halley's Comet was in the sky, Samuel Colt made a gun for a hunter, and I mean a supernatural hunter not bears and stuff. He carved it, inscribed it and blessed it. He also made thirteen bullets, also carved, inscribed and blessed, and because of that it can kill anything."

"Kill anything," he repeated, "like supernatural anything?" He was still hanging the laundry but he was moving slower as Jo's information pulled his attention away from the mundane.

"Like the thing that killed your mother and your step-dad," she confirmed. "Your dad also said he thought he'd figured out where it was." Dean lifted his brow, his hand halfway to the clothesline with a pin. "The gun, not the other," she hastened to clarify. "He thought the Colt was with an old hunter, Daniel Elkins, in Colorado."

Dean jumped and Jo stopped. "Have you heard of him?" she asked.

"I think so. Hang on."

Like all good hunters, Dean kept his weapon-filled duffel close. Even in the middle of a settled area like the Roadhouse the wards could fail or a Bunny could sneak in some other way. It was how Pamela was attacked not twenty yards from the compound. Also like most hunters, his weapon bag contained his most precious possessions, the ones he didn't want to leave unattended. His was a short list, since things could usually be replaced, but he'd added his dad's journal to it. He dug it out now and turned to the early pages.

He found the passage, short and cryptic like most of his dad's more personal notes, and handed the book over to Jo. "Here," he tapped the page. "Dad mentions Elkins. He specialized in hunting vampires."

"I thought vampires were extinct," she said absently.

"Maybe, who knows. Sam and I came across a freaking rugaru in Missouri."

"You're making that up."

"Hand to God," he lifted his arm, "I'd never heard of it either."

"You've added it to the book?" she asked, meaning the binder of information on monsters and the supernatural that hunters added to whenever they encountered something new. Most townships and settlements had a similar bestiary. He assured her Sam had added it this morning before heading in to work with Michael.

"You know this makes sense," he said, taking his journal back. "We'd heard Dad was in Colorado and we couldn't figure out why he'd be heading out there."

"He was looking for the gun," Jo said. Dean nodded. "Did you get to talk to this Elkins guy? It sounds like him and your old man were pretty close at one time."

"Nah. We ran into an ambushed convoy before we got to Manning. There were survivors so they took priority."

"Oh yeah, I heard about that. They're going back out to work on that road since that's the second time it's failed in the last couple years," she told him. "A lot of the hunters are looking to go out that way, make a few bucks. Probably more than most of them are worth."

The opinion was so purely Ellen that Dean had to laugh. "The Homies' attitude may stink but they do pay well," he agreed. "Actually, knowing all this is a big help. Sam and I were thinking of heading back out to Colorado but I don't suppose we'll bother now." He put the precious journal back in the lined side pocket.

"So you'll be hanging around for a bit then?" she asked, handing him the empty basket and carefully not looking at him. "That'll be good 'cuz Ash has some designs he needs a hand with. The man's a genius but he can't even draw a recognizable stick figure."

"I have to talk to Sam but I'll, uh, let you know." He smiled at her, trying to make sure the smile remained brotherly and not anything more. When she walked away, he didn't follow her.

Incest wasn't illegal and Jo wasn't even his real sister. So how come the thought of taking her to bed made him feel more like a pervert than anything he'd ever done with Sam? 

  
The wire came in as predicted. The Homies were recruiting to reinforce the sigil lines along the road through Colorado; standard daily rates for all who responded. Dean and Sam watched the Roadhouse drain of people in one short hour. A few of the guys asked them to come too but Sam said he wanted to stick around, see if their dad dropped in for his mail, and the subject was dropped. Everyone knew the Winchester patriarch had taken the death of his partner hard, and everyone knew how worried his sons were.

Now Dean was hanging with Ash and Sam was still working with Michael, even though Meg and her brother had disappeared sometime the previous day.

"So this line goes like this?" Michael asked, carefully using the brush to demonstrate.

"Very good," Sam said admiringly before he explained further. "There is no set form for battle sigils. They're based on the language and the intent and the caster. My step-dad used to say 'Match the rhythm, catch the power'." Michael smiled and repeated it back. Sam smiled too—it felt right to use Pastor Jim's teachings here.

"Right now we're learning Latin," he continued. " _Salvus es_ , you are safe. A standard shielding spell you'd use to protect your tinman or any other non-airhead in the field with you." He picked up his calligraphy brush. "This is the way I would draw it." He dipped it in the water they were using as ink since water was the only safe substance to use when learning sigils. All the things the old stories said about running water dispersing magic were true, and still water couldn't hold a charge because it evaporated too quickly so, like giving Asher blunt-tipped scissors so he couldn't cut himself accidentally, Michael was using water.

Then Sam remembered Meg had done spell work with water, in the condensation from the beer bottles that had pooled on the table to be exact, so she'd either been an extremely powerful airhead or she'd pricked her finger to add blood to the liquid—which he'd never heard of but could work in theory. Or she was something else entirely…

The hunter shook his head to clear it. Thoughts like those didn't belong here in a lesson, where lack of focus could be disastrous. He pushed them back and away to be looked at later and ignored the shiver of fear that ran through him. Meg had been a symptom of something big happening. Ever since Dad had taken off, Sam had had this sense of impending doom and, yes, he knew that sounded melodramatic—he didn't need Dean telling him that—but it was true. Something was hovering around his family, something big and probably awful, and despite the wards and the protections and the spells, Sam didn't feel safe and he couldn't figure out how to change it. He didn't know what to do…

He gave his head another shake. Right now he had a job and it was important. Michael had a gift that needed to be trained so that's what he was going to do. He corrected Michael's grip, laying his index finger down the length of the brush so it would feel like he was drawing with his finger, which is what Michael would be doing when he did this in the real world.

He put one hand on each of the boys' shoulders and told Michael to draw it again, pulling the free-floating energy into the lines. Sam could feel it gathering under Michael's brush, not smooth, but enough.

" _Salvus es_ ," Michael said once he'd drawn the sigil. This time the energy flowed out cleanly. The power surrounded Michael's target, his little brother Asher, and Sam's fingers tingled. Asher laughed as the spell tickled him. It had been clean power, untainted and exactly how it was supposed to be.

"Excellent!" Sam congratulated him.

"Mike's gonna be a great airhead," Asher stated firmly from his seat across from his big brother. "The bestest in the world."

"You're a dork," said the world's bestest big brother, "but I love you anyway." Asher smiled.

Michael's little brother was doing his own drawings but with crayons instead of a calligraphy brush. They'd done the standard skill tests but they'd hardly been needed since anyone with eyes could tell Asher was going to be a tinman like his dad. The kid was already drawing machines with lasers and umbrellas that would protect the world from brain-stealing aliens. He was growing out his mullet too, just like his father's. Ash was crazy proud.

"Okay, let's try to find a second language you can use," Sam interrupted before the brotherly smack talk could get started. Michael obligingly dipped his brush in the water.

"Let's try Italian, since it's so close to Latin: _siamo al sicuro_." Sam put his hands back on Michael's shoulders but he could tell, even before the energy sputtered and broke apart, that Italian wouldn't be Michael's second spell language.

"Don't worry," he said calmly. "We'll try Polish: _my jesteśmy bezpieczni._ " He listened to Michael stumble over the sounds, unable to find the language's rhythm and match it to the sigil he'd drawn. "Not Polish either. Try Hindi: _hama surakṣita haiṁ_."

It was odd, but standing behind Michael, Sam was echoing the exact same steps Jim had taken with him so long ago. It had taken a long time to discover Sam's control was best in Polish and nobody could figure that out: why Polish and not, say, Gaelic or French? Jim had laughed when John had nearly spat nails at the discovery. Where the hell were they going to get a Polish teacher? "The Lord will provide," Jim had said and they'd found one within the week.

John had ranted about the suspiciousness of coincidences but Jim had given thanks and taken the lessons right alongside him.

Sam knew he wouldn't get to do this with Ben who, like Asher, was already more interested in engines and power supplies. He'd still teach his son the basics of self-protection— _I_ am safe, rather than _we_ —but the change in pronoun was simple and completely altered the focus of the spellwords. Most tinmen could only manage casting basic spells Latin. He only knew of one exception…

And Asher wasn't going to change the statistic.

Michael's brother was muttering the words with them, mangling the pronunciation and totally not caring. It was a good thing he wasn't drawing random shapes, Sam thought with a chuckle. God knew what he could accidentally conjure up.

"Not Hindi either," Sam pronounced after feeling absolutely nothing come from the young airhead

"Thank god!" Michael moaned dramatically. "That made my tongue hurt. Why can't I just use English?"

Sam laughed out loud—it was almost exactly what Dean said when he'd been finding his second language. Of course, second languages were usually tougher to learn as a person got older, and for an airhead Dean had been ancient.

"Because English only works if it's not your first language. No one knows why; just as no one knows why we have magic now and we didn't before."

"It came with the Storm," Asher commented. He'd switched to pencil crayons and was sharpening the red to sawdust. "Everyone knows that."

"But what was in the Storm that made magic real?" Sam countered. "That's what nobody knows."

Asher thought about it, brow furrowed in his seriousness. "Aliens," he finally announced. "It was aliens." Both Sam and Michael laughed. Right now, everything was aliens with the young boy.

"What if I don't have a second language?" Michael asked, looking worried. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing," Sam assured him. My dad's partner used Latin exclusively, and he was a really good airhead. You know Demian and Barnes, right?" Michael nodded. "Both of them cast only in Latin. On the other hand, Andy Gallagher uses Klingon, which isn't even real language but it works for him."

"Yeah but he's an über-airhead, like you."

Sam laughed uncomfortably; it sounded like hunter gossip, labeling him, making him stand out. He changed the subject. "Let's try something weird. I don't know Klingon but maybe… Enochian? _Bransg gea._ "

Michael repeated the phrase but stumbled badly, wrinkling his nose as he spoke and coughing when he was done. Grimacing as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. Sam wasn't surprised. He'd only known two people who could handle Enochian in his whole life and Jim had only learned because his step-son had needed him to. It had been another Winchester weirdness the Pastor had been able to accept.

Man, he missed Jim. He could use some of his confident support right now.

It had barely been a year since the yellow-eyed monster—calling it a Dust Bunny or a demon was too tame—had entered Jim's church and killed him. Two months after that, John had gone as well. Not dead, which would've been bad enough, but just… _avoiding_ them, which was somehow worse. He said it was for their protection until he had a couple things figured out, and Dad wouldn't listen when both he and Dean said they'd be safer together: _stronger_ together.

Their father was, without a doubt, one of the most stubborn sons-of-bitches Sam had ever known. He loved the guy but kind of hated him too. How could he do this to them, to _Dean_?

He wasn't sure what he'd do if John actually showed up. He might hug him or he might hit him, either was a possibility and the see-saw of emotions made him feel slightly ill. But what made Sam's throat clench up and his stomach bobble was the thought that somehow, for whatever mystic bullshit reason, _he_ was responsible for Jim's death, John's disappearance, all of it. Dean said it wasn't but Dean would say that no matter what the truth.

"Try Vietnamese," he said to Michael. " _Chúng ta được an toàn_." We are safe.

He wished he could believe it.

  
The next telegram that came through was from Salvation, Iowa, a little settlement north-east of the Des Moines Township. It was easily an eight hour trip but Dean had decided they could do it in six.

The yellow-eyed monster had been sighted.

  


  
They stopped in Omaha to fill up the Impala, grab some lunch and check with Isaac and Tamara for the latest news on what was happening in Salvation. There wasn't much, a few signs and portents, a weakness in the wards. It was about as useful as owning an airplane. So it didn't explain why Dean sat behind the wheel outside Tamara's Den, running his hands over the seat.

"What is it?" Sam asked.

Dean gave a half-shrug. "Dunno."

And he didn't. It was only a feeling, like one those new age woo-woo things he loved to mock so much. There was no way he could discuss it with Sam without being teased to hell and back.

"We can go someplace else. Take another route," Sam suggested. The airhead paused and then, in his Important Voice, intoned, "There are many ways to find Salvation, my son."

The joke succeeded in jerking Dean out of his abstraction with a barking laugh. He turned a shit-eating grin on Sam. "That was awful."

"Only because I said it first," Sam stated seriously, although the twitching lips totally gave him away. "If you were the one who said it, you'd think it was brilliant."

"Because my delivery would've been much better," Dean said, "smoother."

"Your delivery sucks," was Sam's response and it was _on_.

Dean turned the key in the ignition and they took off down the road. Whatever feeling had crept over the older hunter was forgotten in the familiar bantering and crude put-downs. It made him feel better about this, though he wasn't sure why he needed to feel 'better'. They had a line on the thing that had killed Mary Winchester and their step-dad. That meant either they'd finally find John Winchester, because no way would he allow himself to stay out of the fight, or they'd trap the fucker and exorcise its ass back to the Stone Age. Win either way, Dean figured.

On the heel of that thought came another way he could get a win out of the trip.

"Y'know," he started then stopped to sip his coffee nervously. He cleared his throat and began again. "If this turns out to be a bust… we'll be halfway to Chicago, or near enough." Sam turned to look at him but Dean kept his eyes on the road. "Lots of Chicago left I heard and the pizza's supposed to be pretty good. We could, maybe, keep going, spend a few days, see the sights."

He could feel Sam's stunned stare and he could hear Sam's stuttered breath. He risked a sideways glance. Sure enough, the big Sasquatch was staring at him like he'd announced he was a werewolf.

Or like he hung the moon…

"I'd like that," Sam's voice was thick with unspoken—please God, let it remain unspoken—emotion.

Dean buried his face in his coffee cup, hoping the non-existent steam would explain his blush. "It's just a tourist thing; a few days then back to real life." Best to set the ground rules up front, he thought, so he was relieved when Sam agreed. He smiled back. "Let's go see what's there then," and he turned up the stereo and pushed the gas pedal down until they were a sleek black bullet moving over the asphalt. It was a fucking great feeling.

It lasted for barely an hour out of Omaha before the horizon darkened with a Dust Storm the last TV station had sworn would pass fifty miles south of them. Not that they'd believed the forecast but still… this was a little more than 'a thin cloud drifting lazily'.

Sam was staring through his window. "Should we turn back," he asked.

"It's an hour either way."

"Shit," Sam whispered. Dean's muttered agreement didn't help the tingle of foreboding running down his spine. "What's that?"

Dean peered in the same direction and wondered if it was time for Sam to look at getting glasses because there was nothing there. A minute later he switched to thinking his co-pilot had the eyes of a frigging _hawk_ because there, on the road a good ways ahead of them, was a car. Its hood was up in the universal signal of 'I need help' but Dean couldn't see anyone hanging around the clunky hybrid.

"I think that's Meg," Sam said in disbelief.

Definitely hawk, Dean decided. He didn't say that of course. "Meg," he repeated, "all the way out here."

"Yeah."

"You gettin' a bad feeling about this?"

"Oh yeah…"

Dean had already slowed down some but now he slowed down to way below the old speed limit. To another hunter it would be a clear signal they were suspicious but Dean was hoping that, whoever Meg was, she didn't know the signs.

"Okay," he said, "If this is a trap then you're the target." Sam opened his mouth to protest but Dean raised his finger. "She glommed onto you at the Roadhouse, tried to ensorcel you, and now she's here—where _we_ had no idea we would be going—with car troubles." He waited until Sam shut his mouth. "So, since you're the prize, you're going to stay in the car while I go check it out." Sam was already shaking his head.

"It's logical." Dean argued. "Broken down cars are things tinmen deal with."

"No, Dean, just no," Sam said firmly. "If it's a trap then you're out there exposed. I should have your back–"

"And you will," Dean broke in. "If this goes south, which I admit it's probably gonna, then you will get your ass behind the wheel and boot it for Des Moines and you will call out the dogs on that bitch. Got it?" Dean knew his voice was hard, uncompromising. It was the voice John had used on them when he wanted to be obeyed and he knew Sam hated it. But this was too important. _Sam_ was too important.

Sam sat beside him with his mulish pouty face on, chewing on Dean's order but not, thank the Lord, arguing with him out of habit. He was thinking about it, wondering if he could come up with a better plan. Dean knew he wouldn't, not in the… three minutes they had left. Finally, the brat gave a single nod of his head and Dean sighed out a relieved breath.

He rolled past the pukey-blue box-on-wheels dealers called cars these days and saw Meg and her brother sitting inside. He pulled up in front of them but didn't turn off the car. He turned to Sam, his co-pilot and lover, "I'm counting on you to rescue me, bitch, so don't mess it up." It was as close to a farewell as Dean would go under the circumstances—he sucked at mushy stuff and didn't want to get better—but Sam understood him anyway because he smiled weirdly and nodded, eyes glittering.

Dean got out and shut the door, running his hand over the frame and muttering ' _bransg_ '—protect—so the wards activated. The Impala would pull energy from the engine while it ran because that was the way he'd designed her. Then she'd switch to the power he and Sam had built up in her over the years and the convertor he'd installed after Dad had gone missing a year ago. The wards wouldn't stop everything, but they would hopefully give Sam enough time to get away.

He stepped away from the Impala and noticed the wind was stronger than it had seemed while they were driving. The Streamers behind the wall swirled and twisted like smoke effects in a cheap horror movie. He could practically smell them on the other side of the sigils. Despite the experts who swore it didn't have a scent, to him the Dust always smelled like sulfur. Jim had believed him. Jim had always believed him about that stuff.

Another couple steps then he stopped and smiled at the lying-ass blonde who was climbing out of the wheeled cube. "Hey! Meg, isn't it?" She frowned pretending not to know him. "Dean. Dean Winchester. Sam's brother," he said, watching obliquely as Tom got out on the far side. "You know with the–" he waved at this face "–mouth."

A fake look of recognition flowed over her face and she smiled. If it hadn't been for the malicious twist of it, Dean would've said it was a great smile. No wonder Sam had followed her in the bar. "With the nachos," she said.

"That's the one." Dean widened his smile but still didn't approach—after all this _was_ the Midwest and she _was_ the female and she hadn't invited him in closer. "So what's the problem?"

"Damned if I know." She chuckled as if he were an idiot for asking. "I'm not a, uh, tinman. Isn't that what you call mechanics out here?"

"Or you could call them mechanics," Dean suggested mildly and she sneered in return. Cute as she was, Meg Masters was a condescending hag underneath. "Maybe you should get in the car," he said after letting the silence become tense. "Turn it over, see what happens."

She gave another one of those 'I am superior to you' sneers and sauntered closer to him instead. "Is Sammy with you?" she asked. "I'd like to say hello."

"Only I get to call him, Sammy," Dean replied. "His rules, not mine. And he's in the car researching. There was a distress call sent out. We're heading there now and it's best to be prepared, you know."

Her smile widened and yet somehow became meaner, colder. "I know all about being prepared," she purred and the Dust closed in.


	7. Listening Wind

  


Dean could feel the Dust attacking the Impala, searching for a way in. He could feel it in the air next to him. It was like needles piercing his skin, burning it like the points were dipped in acid. " _Zacar-am_ ," he shouted and locked Meg into place. Usually, he wouldn't use Enochian in front of anyone but Sam, but this time Sam was in danger and all bets were off. He fought better in Enochian and damned if he was going to give up any advantage.

" _Zamran,_ " show yourself he ordered, because Meg was standing untouched and unworried in the middle of the Streamers and he had to know for sure what they were dealing with. He wasn't surprised when her eyes turned black. Fricking demon.

Normally, when he used Enochian to freeze a Bunny it place the spell lasted long enough for him to do an exorcism but considering all the fucking evil _Dust_ floating around them, attacking them and fighting his control, he didn't think it was going to happen today.

" _Brints-t-busd zir_ ," he said: truth and glory surround me. He could feel the spell settle around him, pushing the Dust back. There was too much of it for that spell to last long either but he was already moving back away from the little cow, towards the car because Sammy, that stupid, stubborn, son of a bitch, was creating sigils and trying to fight instead of running like Dean had told him.

Another step and the hunter felt movement behind him. He dropped instinctively and something, a tire iron maybe, whooshed through the air where his head had been. He rolled and kicked the legs out from under his attacker. He pulled the etched knife from his sleeve and slammed the blade into the man's chest. Light flashed under the skin. Sure enough, it was another full-bodied demon.

How many of the fuckers _were_ there? And how did they get through the ward walls and over all the sigil lines?

One of the bastards brought out a gun and shot a tire. Sam wasn't going anywhere now.

"What do you want?" He asked Meg. She was standing hip-cocked and confident but Dean noticed she wasn't moving. His freeze sigil was still working.

"I figured you were a big dim pain in the ass, Dean, but I didn't think you were this stupid." She laughed low and triumphant. "We want Sammy-boy, of course… although _you_ are proving to be rather interesting yourself. Spellwords in Enochian? Not bad for a _mechanic_."

He ignored the danger to himself. "You can't have him." He put some power behind it but she laughed again as if he'd tickled her. Yeah, well, English spellwords always sucked ass.

The Dust was surrounding him, pushing on him and holding him down. " _Ugegi-am geh,"_ he commanded but the pressure barely let up before it came back. The Streamers were swapping out, new ones coming in to replace ones affected by his spell. The same thing was happening to the Impala and Sam. He could feel her wards being corroded by the constant scritch-scritch-scratching. Pretty soon they'd be messing up her paint job and then he'd _really_ be pissed.

"How are _you_ going to stop us?" She was on the move, gliding toward him. Time to be a bit more proactive…

" _Caosgi-ils zacam_ ," he said to one Streamer and it disappeared. It was essentially an order to 'be gone' which he hated using because, well, it was melodramatic and stupid but hey, it worked. He said it to the next trail of Dust, and the next.

He'd cleared enough of the small storm that he could stand up, but before he could get fully upright a large body slammed into him from the side. He brought his elbow up, catching it in the throat, and it gurgled a little but it didn't let up. If it had been human he would've crushed its larynx and it would die a fairly slow and horrific death but it wasn't human, it was another fucking demon. " _Ugegi-ils zir_ ," he said before hitting it again. This time the spellwords took and the Dust poured out of the damaged host before it got caught in a dying body and dragged back to Hell.

So one demon down but one more Streamer to fight. Awesome…

Except there was another demon kicking him in the kidneys. And the boot was attached to Meg… who looked pissed and seriously hard-assed. He grabbed her foot when she pulled it back for another go and toppled her to the ground. " _Ugegi il—"_ he started.

"I don't think so," Meg snarled. A spiky heel hit him low in the chest. If it hadn't hit his thick leather coat it would've pierced his chest. As it was, it knocked the air out of him and he couldn't complete the command. She rolled him over, straddling him. She grabbed him around the neck and squeezed. It hurt like hell and made it hard to breathe, but her hands were too small to get a full grip and so, though it wasn't great, it would take a while for him to die.

"How're you gonna talk me to death now, Dean-o?" she mocked. He managed a smile because the little demon bitch forgot something.

He didn't need to speak to kill her.

He brought his hand around, flipping his grip on the knife so he could stab it up, under the ribs, through the lungs and right into her stony little heart. The demon inside the body flashed, sputtered and flamed out leaving only an empty shell. Dean knocked the hands away and dragged in a breath.

Ding, dong, the witch was dead.

He'd cheer but he was feeling the attacks on the Impala like nails down his spine or barbed wire in his gut, twisting and coiling—an unpleasant and unexpected side effect of the warding they'd done.

Her engine was dead which meant the wards couldn't recharge as quickly. Considering how many of the bad guys were attacking her, it wouldn't take long for the big spells to break down. There was no time: he had to save Sam.

He got back up onto his feet and the Dust slammed into him, swirling around him like a mini-tornado, pulling him off balance and dropping him to his knees. " _Caosgi-ils zacam_ ," he started chanting, dispersing one stream after another, but it was too… fucking… slow!

The Impala's wards fell. Silent in the material world, they were like a multi-toned scream in Dean's psyche. It like being in a car hit by a semi and dragged across yards of pavement: metal scraping on metal, engines whining, tires dragging and burning, windows breaking…

Oh shit…

The glass breaking thing was real. Someone was taking an iron to the Impala's windows.

"Dean!" Sam called but Dean was down, struggling to stay conscious as the breach reverberating through his skull, his skin, his blood. Okay, not the effect he'd anticipated when he'd set them up. He'd have to rethink the connections when he redid them—because he _was_ going to do that; he _would_ get the chance, him and Sam.

Just thinking about having to think about changing the set up for the Impala's wards had a calming effect on the tinman. He could breathe again. " _Brints-t-busd geh_ ," he chanted and the pressure eased a little.

Sam was still fighting. He could hear him barking out orders: _nie dotykaj mnie_ , don't touch me, and _powrót do piekła_ _,_ go to Hell, so at least Sam knew what they were up against. Stream after stream sparked out of existence but there were so fucking many of them.

He stumbled upright, muttering the banishment command over and friggin' over, or even just waving at a cloud when it blocked his vision. When the Dust wasn't in front of his eyes he could see Tom, Meg's so-called brother, reaching into the Impala on Sam's side and trying to grab Sam's feet. but Sam had long, strong legs and Tom's face was showing the effects. Dean hoped the damage would affect his balance or something.

There was another big bruiser on the driver's side. He had bullet holes him in, huge exit wound craters, that weren't stopping him from grabbing at Sam's head and arms. Dean ran at the bruiser, knife out then knife in. He aimed for the lungs up through the liver but it wasn't organ damage that killed demons; aiming for them was just a habit. No, what killed the evil sons of bitches was his knife—the weird ass knife he'd had since he was a kid. It had some kind of special demon-killing magic built into it. All it needed was to touch a demon's inner being and it was over.

He'd more than 'touched' the bruiser's parasitic essence. As the demon flared and burned and died, Dean turned the knife just because. Because this had been a trap and they'd almost lost. _He'd_ almost lost and that pissed him off.

Then there was a man standing beside him, or rather another demon. He could tell by the feel of the guy. He wasn't tall, he wasn't heavily muscled, but there was this aura… gleeful menace.

"Ya know," the demon smiled, big teeth, deep dimples and yellow-eyes all flashing. "I've been hearing things about you Winchesters. So far, I have to admit, you're living up to your reputation." Dean whirled, knife out, but the demon raised a hand and Dean was flung up and over the car, landing on the hood and bouncing heavily to the pavement.

" _Dean_ _!_ " Sam yelled. He followed it up with a furious shout of ' _stój!'_ flung at Tom and it froze the demon hanging half inside the broken window. He sat up on the front seat, already muttering his next sigil.

The older man—demon—raised his hand. "You," he said to Sam, "Sit a spell," and Sam was forced down onto the seat, unable to move, unable to speak. He could see the heels of Dean's boots beyond the Impala's hood; they twitched as the hunter fought against the demon's spell.

The yellow-eyed bastard sauntered around the car until he stood beside the downed hunter. "You did a good job looking after your family, Dean-o, especially Sam. But that's always been your job, hasn't it? Look after Sammy. Protect Sammy. Keep him away from the bad things." The guy made a mock-scary face and then laughed lightly. "Thanks for that. We'll take over from here. After all, he belongs with us."

He made another gesture and Tom was freed. Meg's 'brother' snarled at Sam before grabbing his shoulders and pulling. Two more Bunnies materialized from the cloud. One of them was skinny enough to crawl in the broken driver's side window and she did, scraping huge long wounds into her body's arms and stomach. She grabbed his legs, and between them all, they twisted and dragged him out of the car. He wanted to fight, to shout, to fucking _drop to the ground_ if that's what it took to slow them down, but he couldn't. He was like a living marionette and somebody else was pulling the strings.

"Check for nasty surprises," the older demon ordered and they rifled through his clothes checking pockets, liners, waistbands, ankles… everywhere. It was like trying to enter the Federal Protected Zone in southern Nevada. They got his gun, his knives—even his penknife—his flask of holy water, his extra salt rounds, they took his rosary although the demon who pulled it out started to smoke and burn. They even removed his St. Hubert medallion Pastor Jim had given to him on his sixteenth birthday, right before his first official hunt. The cord was made up of the protective stones and shit that Dean had found for him. It didn't _do_ anything but Sam liked wearing it; liked knowing that people had cared for him enough to take the time. It hurt to see it tossed to the ground like garbage.

Dean had his own set of goons patting him down and they were tossing his personal arsenal into a pile. It was impressive even by hunter standards: two guns, three blades, including the fancy silver push knife Dean had made when he was sixteen. They found the wire made of an iron alloy Rufus had sold him that could be used as either a garrote or a lock pick. They got the salt, the holy water, the rosaries—Dean carried two. They even found the small container filled with the spelled needles he used to sew up wounds.

Two things they should've found but didn't: the deer-handled knife with the etched blade that killed demons and the brass horned-god medallion Sam had given him.

Sam had worked his ass off at Bobby's to earn it so he could give it to Dean. He couldn't give Dean a ring, and anything other than the matching anti-possession tattoos would have been too much of a give-away, but he'd wanted to give his partner something to acknowledge that whatever they were to the outside world between themselves they were something more.

It was huge and heavy and how in Hell did the demons miss it? Either of those things?

" _Nie masz kontro—_ " Sam started the spellwords; you don't control me."

The demon raised a finger to his lips. "Hush," he ordered and Sam's throat closed. "That's better. Now… where was I? Ah yes. Dean-o, the best big brother in the world. What on Earth—or in Hell—am I going to do with you?" He moved around the downed hunter, smirking down at him. "Originally, I was only going to take Sammy here, grown up so big and strong. Doesn't he look good?"

"Stay away from him, you bastard."

"Still fighting, I can admire that about you—it makes your eyes all pretty." The demon fluttered his hand in the air to illustrate and Sam had to grind his teeth in fury. "I was going to kill you—I'm thorough like that—but now, with the Enochian? I'm thinking you're something more than just a pain in the ass. I wonder what secrets you're hiding, Dean-o?"

The grinning bastard crouched down, out of sight and Sam started panting in panic. What were they going to do to Dean? Sam knew the demon was doing something to Dean. He could feel the hum of power flowing out of the creature and through his partner. He tried to call out Dean's name but his vocal cords were locked tight.

When the demon came back into view, he was laughing ruefully. "Well, well, well. Dean Winchester, Mary Campbell's child. Ah, Mary… What a firecracker she was! No wonder you're a fighter. Of all the kids I made my deal with, she was my favorite." He hummed as if remembering something pleasant. It made Sam want to puke.

"Of course, if you're sweet Mary's son, that means little Sammy over there… isn't. Well, we already knew that," he chuckled as he stood. Sam pulled against the force holding him but it was rock-fucking-solid. The demon glanced over at him and his smile turned into evil enjoyment. "Still, what are the odds that you'd wind up next to our baby boy? And now that I know what you are, it does open the door to some rather interesting possibilities, so I really don't think I should kill you."

He was barely talking to them now, lost somewhere in his head. His eyes narrowed as he thought. "Can't take you with us, though. So what to do, what to do…"

"I'm gonna kill you," Dean growled and Sam's hair lifted. It hadn't been an empty threat of a cornered badass but a promise, hard and cold.

"It's good to have a goal in life—keeps you focused." The demon was unfazed. In fact, his eyes narrowed in thought. "You really are pretty when you're angry. I mean, look at you: the eyes, the lips–" he waved vaguely at Dean's groin "–and the rest of it. I think I know someone who'll keep you occupied, _and_ he'll enjoy all that fire as much as I do." He chuckled malevolently, "You're gonna have some good times, Dean-o, I guarantee it."

The demon half turned and looked over the scene of the attack. The sun through the Dust turned his eyes an ugly orange-white color, almost like he was blind. "Fix the walls and bring the cars. As far as anybody knows, the Winchesters disappeared into thin air. Got it?" Then the demon looked at Sam and smiled. Sam flinched…or would have if he hadn't been immobilized. _Yellow_ , not orange…

The light changed again and Sam wasn't sure.

The demon walked over to the open car door, bending down and leaning in. "It took us a long time to find you, almost too long, but now, we're gonna have some fun times, Sammy boy." And the demon smiled, wide and confident.

He wanted to say 'it's _Sam_ '. He wanted to shout and kick and curse too. The only thing that happened was the demon snapped his fingers and the air turned black. 

  


  
It took four days for a group of hunters to find the Impala. She was beat up: windows broken, body scratched, a tire was blown, and there were dents on the hood where someone had taken out their frustrations on it, but she was still recognizably the Winchesters' ride.

The keys were in the ignition so Ed, indulging in fantasies of being cool, thought they should start her up and drive her to the next township. Harry thought it was a bad idea. After all, everyone knew the Winchesters had done funky things to their car so people couldn't steal her. There was even talk they'd put attack sigils in her, but nobody knew for sure. Ed pooh-poohed the idea, saying she would recognize them as friends.

"But we're not actually friends," Spruce pointed out.

Ed ignored him too and climbed into the car through the window since the door was stuck. He cursed as his coat ripped and he cut his hand on the glass covering the front seat, but he managed to make it in.

He sat behind the wheel, barely touching it, picturing himself in control of her as she raced down the road. He could almost hear her engine roar.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Ed?" Corbett asked. He was practically wringing his hands he was so worried. Ed gave him a reassuring smile. "It'll be cool, just watch." Corbett's worry cleared and he backed away.

Ed should have listened to Harry.

As soon as he touched the keys blue lightening coruscated over his body. He jerked and fizzed, making an odd bouncy sound until Corbett, risking his own life, reached in and pulled Ed's hand off the key. That's when Maggie emerged from her armored van and took control.

"When we hit Omaha," she said once they knew Ed wasn't dead, even if he was acting like it, "We'll send a wire to the Roadhouse. Ellen will know who to contact about the car."

Spruce piped up, "I bet that old guy—the junkyard dude—I bet he can touch it."

"There's a bigger question here," Maggie interrupted when Harry looked about to argue. "Dean would never have left the Impala like this, not voluntarily, and Sam wouldn't leave Dean, so what happened to them?"

Spruce looked at Harry and Harry looked at Spruce. Corbett had his fingers on Ed's wrist, making sure his hero's pulse remained steady, and didn't look at anybody.

"If something managed to take out the Winchesters…" Spruce started.

"…then I don't think we should hang around here," Harry finished.

Five minutes later they'd packed Ed up and were moving as fast as their stumpy hybrid vans would go.


	8. Hotel California

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** Graphic at the end of the post is borderline NSFW.  
> 

  


He felt like day old pancakes: his brain was mushy, his muscles were soggy and his whole body was covered in a film of stale sticky sweat. Oh, and his mouth tasted abso-fucking-lutely _foul_.

On the down side, he was awake.

He pried his eyelids open—mostly—then closed them again because there still wasn't anything to look at that made sense.

"You're awake" came a gentle voice accompanied by a large hand that lifted him so he could drink some water. Unfortunately, it was the wrong gentle voice and the wrong large hand. "At least by some definitions of awake, right?"

Normally, Dean would've had a snappy comeback. Today—whatever day this was—not so much. "Yer Tiny, right?" he asked because he had a blurry memory of thinking that of course someone as tall as Sam and twice as wide would be nick-named Tiny, and this was that guy.

"Hey you remembered," Tiny said approvingly. A warm damp cloth stroked over his face and Dean was vaguely aware of the sounds of water. "That's good. Means the damage isn't permanent. Azazel's crew… they're not gentle on the merchandise." The cloth moved down his arm. "Even Alistair's tonic didn't help.

Dean let the words flow right by him. "Sam. Iz Sam 'ere?

"You've asked that before, man. You were the only one brought in," Tiny answered calmly. "I've never seen anybody react like you did to the boss' tonic. Usually it makes everything better—heals all the bruises and stuff. Not you. You drank it all down and threw it all up and kept throwing up. It was weird, man."

It explained the furry mouth, Dean thought.

Dean looked at the guy: big, bald, tattoos all up his arm. He looked soft but Dean would bet a tank of gas Tiny was all muscle underneath. There were also the scars: thin lines from a knife, thicker ropey ones from something else, and little circular ones that looked like cigarette burns. All of them were faded practically to invisibility and Dean wondered if that's what the boss' Tonic was supposed to do.

It also occurred to him, as Tiny moved on to wiping down his chest and stomach, that he was mostly naked. He had no shirt—he wiggled his toes—no shoes or socks. His only item of clothing appeared to be a set of thin cotton pants. "M'stuff?"

"Where's your stuff?" Tiny confirmed. Dean nodded. "Azazel's people probably kept it. The only thing they sold to Alistair was you."

Dean's heart rate jumped into warp drive: the Impala… but no, they couldn't have. She wouldn't start except for a few people he'd keyed into the spell. It was a nasty little trick he'd picked up from a necromancer a couple years back. Then his mind backtracked over what Tiny had said. " _Sold_ me?"

"Yeah."

"Can't sell people. Slavery's illegal in the States."

Tiny laughed, a light sound to come from such a big man. "Maybe in _your_ America but here it happens all the time." The guy seemed remarkably calm about being a slave. "It's better than starving to death or falling victim to the Dust," he said as if he'd read Dean's mind. "If your birth den is poor and if you're cute then maybe, if you're lucky, you'll get taken in by a club like this one. Here you have food, clothes, shelter and a certain level of protection against the truly nasty things that get through the barriers."

"What kind of club is this?"

"Sex mostly, especially rough sex."

"So you let yourself get beat up?" Dean knew his voice was a little…judgmental but, really, Tiny was fricking _huge_.

"Let?" the guy repeated with a smile. "I don't just 'let'. I look forward to it." He went back to wiping Dean down. His legs now—when had his pants come off? "Had some college guy as a client once, called it conditioning." Dean tried to bat Tiny's hands away but the big guy grabbed both his wrists in one of his and held them to the side. "Whatever. I'm used to it. I have my regulars and Alistair gives me jobs outside the club so I get to see the city. It's not a bad life."

It sounded freaking _awful_ to Dean but this time he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Tiny rolled him over and started washing his back side… literally. Dean tried not to tense up. Tiny wasn't threatening anything just cleaning him up. "So where are we?" he asked to take his mind off what the other guy was doing.

"We're in the Recovery Room."

That wasn't what Dean had meant "I mean what city? Last I remember, me and Sam were on our way to Salvation, Iowa. We were half way to Des Moines when we got jumped." Tiny's hands finally stopped moved. Dean looked up at him. "What?"

"You're from the Badlands?"

"Badlands?" Dean scoffed. "I'm from Kansas."

"Yeah, the Badlands," Tiny repeated eagerly. "Is it true there are Dust Storms all the time and the land is all burned and dry, and Dust Devils are everywhere waiting to suck your brains out, like in the old west with the Indians, except they took scalps not brains but you'd still be dead, I guess. And do you really have scaly worm monsters running through the old farmlands? I heard that was the latest creature to make it out of the Dust."

Dean forgot his limp pancake-ness and raised himself up on one elbow to stare at the guy. "What the fuck… where'd you _hear_ that crap?"

"It's on the news and there's a TV series: Have Gun Will Travel. It's a remake of an old Western set in the present day Midwest. Two brothers travel around in a classic car, hunting things and saving people, like their father did before he got killed."

"I must have missed that one," Dean said dryly.

"It's a good show," Tiny defended, "They did a lot of research."

Dean snorted. "Well, Bunn _-eees_ _aren't_ everywhere, and even if they were, they don't eat brains—that's a type of zombie—and the people out there aren't huddled around campfires in a circle of wagons. We got TV and radio and the 'Net."

"Still, you're a Hunter," Tiny said and Dean could hear the capital 'H'.

A fanboy… great.

They got them sometimes, guys who wanted to 'experience' the untamed Midwest, wanted to be in on a Hunt and know the thrill of facing down a Dust Bunny. Mostly they didn't make it further than Missouri before their fantasies were ruined. Some, like Richie, found the life suited them perfectly and they never left.

Still in this place, where he was essentially a prisoner and a slave, having a guy like Tiny on his side could be handy. "Yeah, I'm a tinman."

"Cool," the guy practically cooed. "I mean, _I_ think it's cool. Some of the other staff might not like it so much: Jake won't be happy, for one. He's pretty much been cock of the walk since he arrived a few months ago. Tall, good-looking… definitely a dominant. Like you."

Dominant? Dean wondered but didn't ask. He felt like he'd been dropped in ancient Babylon or something: new culture, new language, unknown allies and enemies. Fuck, he wanted to be back on the road in the Impala with Sam at his side. They'd taken Sam for certain, but where? And instead of killing Dean, which Meg had kind of said was the plan, they'd kidnapped him and brought him here…to Alistair's which was a seedy sex club specializing in pain.

Tiny had finished washing him off. The big man pulled a new set of thin cotton pants out of a closet along with a thin cotton top. "You think you can dress yourself yet?" he asked.

Dean wasn't sure but he said yes anyway. Tiny tossed him the clothes then went back in for clean sheets. He stood for a moment, clutching the sheets in his hands, while Dean struggled to make his sluggish limbs obey him. It was a strange thing; he could heal other people with a touch and a thought but he couldn't fix himself. Never had been able to. It was, he considered, a serious defect in his gift.

He used the wall to pull himself to his feet, figuring it would be easier for his caretaker to change the bed if he wasn't on it, but Tiny was still by the closet holding the linens. "What is it?"

Tiny looked up at him, a frown in his eyes. "I was thinking… You being a Hunter explains some things. The boss…the boss is taking a personal interest in you. He hasn't done that in a long time."

"I take it that's not a good thing."

"There are benefits," Tiny responded hesitantly. "Better food sometimes, nicer clothes; things like that, but…"

"But they have to be earned," Dean finished for him. Tiny nodded. "C'mon dude. You keep twisting those sheets and you're going to pull them apart." Tiny blinked like he'd forgotten he was holding them and maybe he had. Dean sat down on the next cot over and watched as the big man efficiently remade his old one. The mattress was thin and hard and placed bare over a frame strung with thin metal slats. Dean looked at them closely, assessing them as possible weapons or escape tools, but it all seemed to be welded together pretty solidly.

"I'm assuming earning the good stuff is unpleasant?" Dean figured it was a safe assumption; after all, the guy ran a freaking pain pit.

"Depends, but yeah. The thing is," he didn't look at Dean, "not even trying? Just makes it worse." 

  


  
The sun was bright. The bed was soft. The sheets were smooth and warm. He'd kicked off his covers a long time ago. Sam kept his eyes shut. He lay as still as humanly possible.

He was feeling nauseous… again.

At first they thought it was travel sickness because, apparently, he'd been sick the whole trip—which sucked because they'd used an armored camper to travel to New York and he could remember looking forward to traveling in one. It would've been the same kind used when females moved from one settlement to another. It would've had the air filtration system, the self-contained water reclamation system, salt and consecrated iron lining every opening, and of course it would've had a bed, a fridge, a stove and a Nintendo 64. Those campers were like little travelling dens. But instead of enjoying the amenities, he'd puked the whole time.

He was still puking. Every freaking morning…

They figured it was the flu but Sam never got the flu… or colds; he never got sick period. When Dean had had chicken pox and then the measles, Pastor Jim had encouraged Sam to play with his brother, sleep with his brother, sit next to him on the sofa and read to him— _and stop him from scratching_ —in the hopes Sam would catch the diseases while he was a kid, but Sam hadn't caught any of those bugs. And if he hadn't caught any of them then, he didn't think he had caught one now.

_His_ theory was it was the New York water, which was so processed and treated it tasted more like chemicals than water. If it was the water then all they could do was wait until his body adjusted. Shouldn't be too much longer. He hoped.

He heard the outer door whoosh open and soft footsteps on thick carpet as the newcomer came towards him. It was a big room, bigger than some trailers he'd been in, all open and light. He was looking forward to enjoying it one day…but it probably wouldn't be today.

"How you doing there, Sam?" his visitor said quietly.

"Same as yesterday, Brady," he answered in a growl. Brady, who'd been assigned as his escort, chuckled soundlessly.

He sat down on the bed and lifted Sam into a half sitting position. "I brought you some more of Lilith's tonic."

"Thank god," Sam murmured. Of all the stuff they've been dosing him with, Lilith's Family Recipe worked the best. It didn't taste good, thick and somehow familiar, but it stayed down and made him feel better. Not immediately, but he'd be able to face the rest of the day once he'd drunk the glass.

"You think maybe we can go to the Guggenheim today?" Sam had asked the same question yesterday… he was sure it had been yesterday but maybe it was the day before.

"Hold on there, tiger," Brady chuckled, "Let's make sure your stomach settles before making any plans." He gently guided Sam back down to his pillows. "Now, we'll wait half an hour, see what happens. Then, if all's well, we'll go down for breakfast."

Sam's eyes were open barely a slit but he watched, counting the seconds, as the good looking blond tidied up what little mess Sam had made the night before. The longer it took the more it seemed Brady stretched out the minimal work, and the more impatient Sam got. Turned out, Lilith's tonic had an embarrassing side effect: it got him hard like an iron rod. He could feel it starting and Brady was still puttering from one side of the room to the other.

He rolled over and pulled up his knees, hiding his growing erection.

Brady had offered to take care of it a couple times, but Sam had refused in an embarrassed tangle of words. Brady had laughed at him. Looking back on it, Sam could chuckle at himself too. Didn't mean he was going to take him up on the offer though.

When he told Dean about it—the tonic, the effect, Brady's offer and his response—he knew the older hunter would laugh his ass off, but Sam also knew it would make Dean hot. Teasing and mind-blowing sex would be the result followed by lazy post-coital affection, the kind it takes a lifetime to acquire.

No, he didn't want Brady. He wanted Dean, and if he couldn't have Dean, then he had a perfectly good right hand. Which he couldn't get busy with until Brady had left the room…

Finally, the freaking neat-hen finished straightening out stuff that was tidy to begin with and headed toward the door. He turned the knob and opened it but didn't leave right away. Instead he flashed Sam a wide, friendly grin. "Don't worry, Sam. We're going to take good care of you" and then he was gone.

Right now Sam didn't care about them taking care of his health. Right now he cared about his hard-on. He pushed down the sheets and his sleep pants and frantically spat into his palm. His spit was a little red from the tonic but the color looked nice on his flushed cock. He wrapped his hand around it and squeezed a little, pretending it was Dean's hand. He twisted it up then down. The sensation made his breath catch. He was so fucking aroused…

He started pumping and he remembered the last time he'd done this with Dean, both of them standing on either side of the Impala with their pants down barely past their asses, hands fisted, furiously pumping, racing to the finish. Missing Dean was like having a hole in his gut or his arm cut off. They were apart for the first time Sam could remember. So far, he didn't like the sensation at all.

" _Bransg zir,_ " I am protected, he whispered in Enochian just like he had that day. The scraping of his throat as he spoke the alien language was comforting rather than irritating. It was stupid but he felt like he was keeping his partner close by repeating the ritual while he beat off. Dean had thought it up, after all, refined it and taught it to Sam: it was Dean's spell

" _Bransg gea_ ," we are protected. " _Brints-t-busd zir_." He could picture Dean, how he had looked at him through half-shut lids, his green eyes glittering in enjoyment and arousal. His ridiculously long lashes had left shadows on his cheeks that only made his freckles more defined.

Sam's breath was tight now, shallow and dry. " _Ugegi zir,_ " I am strong. The sun had been warm and the Impala had been purring, urging them on, wanting them to spill all over her. " _Ugegi gea."_

It was building, building, stretching him and pushing him, and then he broke, nearly shouting the final phrase. It cleaned him out, filled him with light then pulled him down into bone-melted laziness. He sent some of the energy he'd built up out to Dean and the Impala like he always did. Some of it he locked inside himself by drawing Dean's sigils on his skin with his still warm cum.

With the orgasm over, his nausea came back. Not as bad as before but still not fun. He dropped back to sleep with one large hand protectively covering the dried semen. He didn't want to risk the sigil flaking away.  

  


  
According to the clock, it was day two of being awake. Dean had been talking to Tiny about…well, everything, so he'd have a better idea of what to expect. Know what's out there; know how to plan, had been one of his dad's mottos.

He wasn't sure how one prepared to have violent sex on a stage in front of a whole lot of strangers but he'd have to figure it out.

Tiny said some people got turned on by the idea. Dean wasn't one of them. Just picturing it made his stomach knot. He wasn't shy, exactly… at least, he wasn't shy with _Sam_ or the women he'd slept with, but the only time there'd ever been more than two in the same bed had been that time with Lisa and Sam, and it was hardly in the same league as performing in front of a crowd.

That was the other thing that bugged him. Tiny called them 'performers' or 'staff' instead of slaves or hookers. Most of the people in Alistair's had been sold to the house (as in whore house, Dean thought but didn't say). Some had volunteered in order to escape from debts or because it was better than whatever they'd left. None of them got paid any kind of real wage; the only money they saw was in-house credit chips, which weren't good anywhere but here. They were completely at the guy's mercy, and worst of all, most of them didn't mind. He'd beat them, sell them out to be whipped and raped, and they were, most of them, cool with that. Even the ones who weren't happy went along with it because, as Tiny had explained, the guys who didn't adjust didn't live very long, even with the boss' miraculous tonic cure.

With that in mind, Dean didn't wonder at the occasional cold spot he walked through.

Alistair arrived right before supper and took Dean's appetite away. He was tall, thin, with a huge beaky nose, and the coldest eyes Dean had ever seen on a human being. He stared at them a moment. He dismissed Tiny with a flick of his eyes, but took his time looking Dean over. The longer he looked, the more Dean could feel his temper building. Not only was it rude to stare like that, but he could also sense Alistair's feeling of ownership. An 'oh look at the fine specimen I've added to my collection' vibe that made Dean want to hit him. Nobody owned Dean.

He must have made some noise because Tiny shot him a warning look. The big guy had risen to his feet, standing at fricking attention, when Alistair had arrived, so had Paul, the only other inhabitant of the Recovery Room. Tiny waved at him now, down by his side where his hand would mostly be hidden. Dean lifted his eyebrow at Tiny in silent protest. Tiny waved a little harder. It occurred to him that, since Tiny had been assigned to him as his nurse-instructor type person, Alistair might make the big guy pay for his defiance. He could tone it down a bit.

With a sigh, Dean dragged himself to his feet. He still ached all over so it wasn't all for show. He assumed an approximation of the military's old stand easy pose and looked at nothing over the asshat's left shoulder.

Alistair snorted as if he knew it was a minor show of defiance. "Dean Winchester. It's nice to see you again. Looking much livelier too."

This time Dean snorted. Tiny sucked in a breath. "You have a reputation, Dean. Did you know that?" Dean said nothing. "A badlands hunter brings with it a certain automatic aura of toughness. 'Just give me a bullet to bite on' and all that John Wayne mystique."

Dean barely refrained from rolling his eyes. What was it with people thinking the Midwest was the Old West?

"I'm going to make a lot of money off you," Alistair continued. His voice was so nasal Dean was surprised he even bothered to open his mouth when he spoke. Plus he fricking _oozed_ condescension.

"If you play this right," the asshole said, "your stay here could be a very pleasant one. I'm sure Tiny told you all about our reward system," Alistair paused for the first time, waiting for a response.

"He's been very informative," Dean said neutrally.

"Excellent," Alistair smiled. It didn't move his face around very much. "Tonight is your debut. Let's make it a memorable one." Three goons stepped out of the shadows behind Alistair.

"Ah, hell no," Dean said and took up a defensive stance.

"Dean, this isn't a good idea," Tiny urged even as he backed away from the hunter.

"Don't fucking care," Dean replied. "I can't just let this happen." And he couldn't. He'd realized it when Alistair had made his announcement.

"Dean, Dean, Dean," Alistair shook his head in mock dismay. "Your defiance is so very stereotypical. It'll play very well with our patrons. Of course, if you act like an outraged virgin about to be sacrificed then my behavior also has to follow established guidelines."

" _Dean_ ," Tiny's voice was full of horrified warning. Dean should listen, he knew he should. Fitting in, conforming and surviving that's what he should be thinking of.

He couldn't, he absolutely couldn't. Sam was the only man who got to fuck him without getting a punch to the jaw or worse.

"Fuck you, you sick fucking bastard."

Beside him Tiny cursed softly and without hope. Dean told him to back away. Alistair smiled. He nodded his head and the goons approached.

Dean watched them come, watched how they moved, tried to gauge their style, their strengths, their weaknesses. He was forced to admit there didn't look to be any of the latter. He rolled his shoulders and prepared to get into it anyway.

Goon 1 was dark haired, dark eyed, and thick bodied. He charged and Dean sidestepped to let the guy's own momentum trip him over the cot behind them. Goon 2 was dark haired but blue eyed and lean like a snake. He swung. Dean blocked, stepped into the guy and used the movement to quicken his own punch. It landed nice and solid on the kidneys—no need to mess around—but the goon hardly flinched. Instead he trapped Dean's arm under his own and twisted it and Dean bent painfully backwards to avoid a broken arm or dislocated joint. He landed a punch on the guy's diaphragm which made Goon 2 cough but didn't stop him from lifting his free arm and preparing to bring it down on Dean's face.

"Not the face," Alistair instructed from the sidelines.

Goon 2 tried to adjust his swing but Dean didn't wait. Goon 3, blond and blue eyed, was closing in so the hunter pushed himself toward the one holding him. The goon stepped back and Dean kneed him in the groin and finally— _finally_ —the asshat let go. Goon 3, the blonde, made a grab for him and Dean ducked. He wrapped his arms around the blonde's legs and pushed up, lifting him off the ground and tossing him back. Blondie landed with a thump across the hard little cot.

There was a growl behind him. Dean braced himself and sure enough, Goon 1, the ugly dude, was charging him from behind. He bent, braced, and when Tuco tried to grab him, he straightened his legs and tossed him on top of Blondie.

Blondie and Tuco, he thought inconsequentially, which meant goon 2 was Angel Eyes.

Freaking westerns invading his brain. He scowled at his brain. Then Angel Eyes swept Dean's leg out from under him and he fell to his knee with a smack. "Fucking ow! You fucking dickwads," he yelled. While he was down there, he grabbed the chamber pot. When Angel Eyes reached for him, he whacked him with it in a sweeping roundhouse. Tuco was back in the game. Dean blocked his punch with the ceramic pot. He hit hard—hard enough to force Dean to slide across the cement floor and to make his wrists a little numb.

'What the fuck?' Dean thought. From an early age he'd trained to fight the supernatural, which meant creatures that were going to be bigger, faster, stronger _and_ tougher than most people could deal with. Dean wasn't most people. Dean usually matched the creatures for speed, and was often close on size and strength, but Tuco's punch? That was right up there with the kick of a Spring-Heeled Jack. And they were shaking off the damage Dean was inflicting with an ease that was actually frightening.

If this was what Alistair's tonic did for them then Dean felt kind of sorry he was allergic because there was no way this was going to end well for him.

He swung out with the chamber pot again only to have it ripped from his hands by Tuco. Blondie kicked him in the shoulder and knocked him sideways… right into Angel Eyes' lap. Angel Eyes wrapped his arm around Dean's throat, elbow over the larynx, muscles squeezing the carotid artery, and Dean's world started to go hazy.

"I want him conscious," Alistair, the prick, commented. Angel Eyes immediately loosened his grip but not enough for Dean to escape. He tried to jab his elbow into something delicate but the goon grunted and kept on holding him. Blondie looked at the other two, and just like that, Tuco and Angel Eyes each grabbed an arm. Angel Eyes wrapped his leg around Dean's and Tuco sat on the other one. Good idea because Dean had been planning on trying to kick Blondie in the groin. Instead Blondie, with no change of expression, punched him on his breastbone and completely stole his breath.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't fucking _breathe_!

It felt like there was a bungee cord _inside_ his chest wrapped around his lungs. Or maybe it was a vacuum pulling his throat closed before any air got in. Either way he wasn't breathing. Blondie lifted him easily while he desperately tried to start his lungs moving. Tuco and Angel Eyes rose to their feet and they each took an arm. Angel Eyes lifted the one he was holding, twisting it up behind Dean's back, forcing it high enough to be painful but without risking dislocation. It was obvious he'd done this before.

Once their grip was secure Blondie tapped him on the chest, near to the place he'd punched him, and his lungs unlocked. He drew a deep, painful breath that scratched all the way down and made him cough. It wasn't fun; his ribs hurt too freaking much.

"That was most entertaining. I think that made a wonderful warm up to the feature." Alistair pointed to the ceiling and Dean, following his finger, remembered the security camera. Except it obviously wasn't a security camera, or not only a security camera, it had to be a closed-circuit TV camera as well, and somewhere in the building, people had watched him get his ass handed to him.

"Fucking sick. You're fucking sick," Dean said looking right into the lens. "All of you."

A rough hand gripped his hair and tugged his head back, pulling until his neck hurt and his eyes watered. "Dean, Dean," Alistair cooed at him nauseatingly. He ran one long finger down the center of Dean's face and Dean's heart started thumping in fear the way it hadn't before. "I have so much to teach you…"

_Ohshitohfuckohshit_. It repeated like a litany in Dean's brain as Tuco and Angel Eyes dragged him down the corridor. He tried to fight, tried to kick or drop and free himself so he could run away. The logical part of his brain yelled 'to where?' but he ignored it; he'd only have to worry about that if he managed to escape and he knew, even as he fought and struggled, his chances of that were about as good as his chances of being Invited into Angelina Jolie's Den. But he had to try.

He was hauled down the corridor, through a thick door with a complicated lock, past other doors that all looked identical, up a long set of stairs with barred gates guarding the top _and_ bottom. Part of him was cataloguing everything, every turn and branching, part of him was plain freaking out. He didn't want this to happen because whatever 'this' turned out to be, he knew it was going to be bad.

He'd never been raped.

He knew guys who had been raped because humans, some humans, were just assholes like that and human beings hadn't changed much since the Storm, but _he'd_ never had it happen, never even had it attempted. Neither had Sam. He'd had guys hit on him when he was younger but Dad had been there and Pastor Jim and his refusal had always been accepted. Later, he could protect himself and he'd had Sam covering his back so again his refusals had been accepted. He didn't think that would be the case this time. No one had his back. So he wiggled and he squirmed and he tried the whole 'passive resistance' thing but it didn't help. He wasn't weak and he wasn't light but the goons carried him along as if he were a spoiled child having a tantrum. He'd never felt so helpless and he didn't like it.

The corridors upstairs were as utilitarian as the one below, but the anonymous doors didn't look quite so prison-like. The smell of cooking drifted through the air. Steak maybe, and something with onions. It was an inconsequential detail that reminded him he hadn't eaten for nearly six hours.

Underneath it all it smelled like blood and cleaner and pain.

Blondie came around from behind them and opened one of the doors. Beyond it was mostly dark with spotlights showing off cables and props and curtains—back stage.

Dean renewed his struggles. He managed to brace one foot against the door jamb but Blondie kicked his knee up and pushed his leg in and that was that.

They dragged him up a short flight of stairs—for which Blondie grabbed his ankles and lifted—and through a curtained area and onto the stage all lit up and bright. In the center was a simple metal frame. Beside the frame were a table and a cabinet; the cabinet was closed and the stuff laid out on top of the table was covered by a dark red cloth. Probably cheap velvet, Dean thought cattily. Lining the back of the stage were six huge TV screens which were filled with pictures of him being dragged onto the stage. The audience was watching, _had_ been watching since the fight in the Recovery Room.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," he muttered in prayer and Tuco flinched.

Tuco _flinched_ …

These guys were fucking _demons_. Like Meg had been. Ohshitohshit…

No wonder he hadn't been able to hurt them. What the hell were the words for the exorcism? And would he have time for the whole thing because his spellwords _sucked_ in Latin and he couldn't make the sigils anyway, but the full exorcism said in Latin worked whether or not the person was an airhead and considering how his mind was skittering around, he wouldn't be able to airbend for shit.

" _Exorcizam_ —" he managed to get out before Angel Eyes covered his mouth and his nose stopping his voice and his breath.

"How impressive," Alistair growled, sounding somewhat less pleased with Dean than before. "I never would have thought a backwoods mechanic would have even _heard_ of the _Rituale Romanum._ I guess we'll have to occupy those pretty lips with something… more entertaining."

_Ohshitohshit_ This was so bad…

He put everything he had left into not getting locked into the frame but it wasn't enough. Not even close. Angel Eyes and Tuco positioned his arms and Blondie fastened the manacles around his wrists. The click of the lock engaging was like hearing the hammer of a gun pulled back right beside his ear, except this weapon didn't have a bullet he could dodge.

"As you can see, our newest addition didn't volunteer. He wouldn't have, of course." A hand came around and touched his anti-possession tattoo. "He is a genuine hunter sold to me fresh from the badlands."

Dean could hear Alistair's unctuous voice over the pounding of his blood. It didn't sound any better for being in a big room. "Slavery's fucking illegal, you fuck!" he managed to shout because he was making the goons work for his feet, at least a little. Oh hey, his mouth was free again… " _Exorci—"_

This time Blondie stopped him, not by covering his mouth, but by grabbing his bottom jaw and pressing his thumb and fingers in at the hinge. There was a spattering of applause from the audience he couldn't see because of the lights. Dean couldn't close his lips and couldn't raise his tongue well enough to form actual words. All he could do was hope intent counted in this like it did in spellwords. "Eshor'izha' kgeh—" He didn't think it was working: Blondie's eyes didn't black over. In fact, the bastard smirked like Dean was tickling him.

"You can tell he's from the Badlands from his limited vocabulary." Alistair hadn't even paused in his on-stage patter, which was, Dean realized, being picked up by a mike and broadcast out into the audience. "However, _this_ will take care of it for now. Later, we shall begin proper training."

There were chuckles and hoots of agreement from the unseen crowd but that's not what made Dean shiver. Hearing Alistair talk about training in that nasal sneer… The guy sounded so anticipatory and plain fucking _nasty_ that the hunter knew he was not going to like the training. Then Alistair was beside him.

"Open wide, Dean," he said and Blondie forced his jaw painfully wide. A rubber ball with straps was stuck into his mouth. He tried to push it out with his tongue but Blondie had relaxed his grip. His jaw was so happy not to be half-dislocated it practically snapped shut. He hadn't been fast enough to get the gag out and now Alistair was fastening the buckle. "It's a pity you don't get to see the full beauty of his lips; they're quite full and pouty. As a consolation, you'll have an idea of what they would look like when stretched around an erection."

Dean struggled to continue the exorcism, to curse, to do anything because anything was better than hanging here waiting for whatever.

He could already feel the drool gathering at the corners of his mouth.

"Perhaps we should start his training with… discipline," he cooed the last word and the crowd applauded again. It was obviously a code for something specific. Dean tried to turn his head to see what Alistair was doing over by the cabinet but he couldn't get a good angle on it.

He heard a thick crack and recognized it: leather belt being snapped tight. "Since this is his first time," Alistair monologued "we'll avoid the buckle—keep all that pretty skin intact. Plus this will soften him up so that we can have even more fun afterwards."

Dean could see the table and red velvet cover had been removed. There were small metal clamps with plain edges and serrated, something that looked like a lace-up corset for his dick, a short necklace of oversized pearls and a huge fake cock. It was fucking bigger than Sam's at his most aroused. There was no way it was going to fit inside him without pain and there was no way Alistair wouldn't be putting it in him.

He screamed his anger and his fear and his determination to not quit—to never quit. It was an incoherent noise behind the rubber gag.

The audience ooh-ed their enjoyment.

Thick leather landed like a bludgeon across his shoulders, down his spine, over his ass and across his thighs. Then it moved to his front where it hit thighs and ribs, landing hard enough for Dean to feel it but not enough to do permanent damage. Tuco and Angel Eyes stood one on each side, taking turns swinging. Through it all Alistair's voice kept up a running commentary. "As you can see from the pre-existing scars a Hunter's life is a dangerous one. I'm sure that, if we were to set Dean up in a cage match—" there was a smattering of cheers and applause "—he would do very well."

Dean already knew he'd prefer the cage match.

The beating went on for a while. It should've been no different from being flung into a wall by a poltergeist but it _was_ different.

A poltergeist was barely sentient, a collection of energy that could almost remember being alive and could definitely remember how to hate. He'd been tossed around by one a time or two. Not fun but still nothing like this… _stage_ show, with its cold efficiency and smarmy narration. The rhythm never faltered, the force never changed. It might as well have been robots holding the belts, although demons were pretty fucking close. He could feel liquid running over his cheeks and tried to convince himself it was sweat. He wasn't very convincing.

He couldn't disassociate himself from it, but it did become… familiar. If it stayed at this then he'd be able to cope. However, Alistair's narration made it clear this was only the appetizer. By the end of it Dean knew where every nerve, every muscle, every ligament and tendon was located in the middle part of his body. Whenever he tried to relieve the pressure on one area it made a different section stand up and yowl. But it was still bearable.

"We've tallied your votes and the willow switch until first blood is the winner."

They voted on this crap? Dean thought in disbelief.

"We'll be concentrating on his buttocks so we'll have screen two… ah, there we go, screen two will have the close-up and of course, the blows will be counted so betting can be accommodated." Again with the applause but this time it was followed by murmuring as the audience ordered drinks or made bets or fucking jerked off for all Dean knew.

This time, Alistair was the one holding the whip. The first hit felt like nothing compared to the heavy leather belts; a stinging flick over his ass, like he'd caught a splinter or got bit by a midge. When the strokes reached the double-digits it was like a nasty rash or road burn: an irritating, itchy burn all over.

"As you can see, despite the abundance of freckles Dean's skin is pale enough for everything to show up quite distinctly." The asshole sounded like he was discussing a piece of art, Dean thought. The bastard pattered about discipline and made jokes about 'spare the rod, spoil the child' that the audience liked but Dean could've done without.

He tried to breathe through it, control the pain like he'd been taught, but it was becoming too big, too consuming. Every time he breathed the bruising on his ribs from the leather belts reminded him he hurt. Every time he shifted, the muscles in his thighs protested. Eventually, his awareness of anything outside his body faded as the pain sank in deeper and deeper. By the time Angel Eyes' count reached one hundred it was like spikes digging into his ass with every hit, and each one was attached to an electric cable running up his spine and down his legs inside the bones. It was the worst pain he'd ever imagined, and considering what his life had been up to this point…

He tried to imagine who'd find the Impala. Would they try to start her? Would it hurt like this hurt?

He tried thinking about where Sam was and if he was safe, and if Carmen was beginning to show a baby bump yet. He tried to think about making love to Sam or Carmen or maybe the both of them together but it didn't work. He was being whipped on stage in front of an audience by a demon and he was whimpering with the pain. That's when he realized the ball gag thing was gone. He couldn't remember them removing it. It didn't matter. He didn't care. He just wanted this to be done.

Cheering and groans broke out in the crowd loud enough to jar him from his daze. He could hear the noise over the thump-bada-thump of his pulse and he finally figured out it was over.

A rough-skinned finger skimmed lightly down his spine and over his beaten and bleeding ass and Dean froze. "It helps he has such definition in his musculature although it could, perhaps, be improved." And then the finger turned into a hand and the hand cupped his ass cheek and gave a squeeze. Dean whimpered as the fire clawed its way into his guts. He couldn't support himself on his legs, his muscles felt like warm Jell-O, and he fucking _hurt_ too much. He wrapped his hands around the manacle chains and tried to lift himself up a little but moving just made different body parts take up the chorus of pain.

"Shall we leave the trails as decoration?" Alistair asked in his nasal voice. The audience responded positively.

"As you can see, Dean isn't a fan of our little kink." The willow twitch flicked once over his flaccid penis. Dean tried to bend over his groin protectively but the frame kept him upright and mostly straight. "However, with the proper stimulation, we could change that. What should we use to make him…happy?" An excited murmur rolled through the crowd and Dean could hear beeps.

"Very good, very good," the demon purred "everyone has voted and the dildo wins."

Oh fuck no… Dean shut his eyes. Forget breathing, he'd try unconsciousness if it would get him through this next bit.

Unconsciousness didn't oblige and Dean had to stay awake as one of the goons filled him with lube. He was only vaguely aware of the audience, a background of sound and malevolence, but he was aware of Alistair's nasal voice and the evil joy the bastard was taking in this whole thing. He was aware of the large head of the fake cock being pressed against his anus, pressed into him and stretching him painfully wide. He tried opening his stance but he couldn't move much so it didn't help. Jesus H _Christ_ , but it hurt!

He was aware when Alistair started his reach-around, long fingers massaging his limp cock and balls, tickling them with short fingernails, and disgusting or not, Dean's body couldn't help but respond to the direct stimulation. Then the bastard turned on the dildo and knobs Dean hadn't been aware of massaged him from the inside hitting his sweet spot with impersonal precision. Desperately Dean tried to think of other things, gross things, things that would end his physical response. Finding long dead bodies, for example, or Victor and his suspicions. He even tried to imagine himself _flying_ in an old-fashioned airplane, for Christ's sake. Nothing worked. His penis filled, his nipples hardened, and he found himself breathing fast as his arousal grew. When Alistair pressed against the wounds on his butt, it was one more sensation piled onto the rest.

He tried not to say anything. He tried not to beg. That didn't work so well either.

"That's a good boy," Alistair murmured in response. "Let us hear your pleasure." There was a smarmy satisfaction in his voice that made Dean cringe inside.

The demon had obviously done this before because it didn't take him long to have Dean's balls high and tight against his body, and it was only seconds later when Dean shouted out his orgasm in angry, embarrassed release.

"Oops. I must apologize to the front row," Alistair chuckled. "Who knew Dean's ejaculate would have such reach." There were appreciative murmurs from the audience. There were also other sounds, familiar to Dean from nights spent in all-male barracks, that he wished he could un-hear. He didn't want to know the guys in the audience had gotten off on his torture and rape. It made him want to kill all of them. It made him want to throw up. It made him want to slink away and hide. Thank God it was over.

"Now. Dean will, of course, require some medical attention, but not for an hour or two. Who would like to start the bidding?"

_Dean screamed his anger and his fear and his determination to not quit--to never quit.  
It was an incoherent noise behind the rubber gag._


	9. Hard Sun

Dean's mind was static: fuzzy and breaking up.

They'd left him tied to some kind of mount. It was leather, and smooth, and it smelled like old blood.

He couldn't feel his hands. He was cold but shivering hurt so he tried not to do it.

He didn't know how long it had been; had no fucking clue and couldn't bring himself to care.

He'd electrified himself once, hunting a rawhead they'd found in a newly cleared area. The current had chased itself through his veins like an army of ants wearing golf cleats. That had been bad. This was worse. Because this pain had been caused by humans.

They'd been people, _real_ people, not possessed or infected, just… people.

It had been a woman who'd 'bought' him and Dean could remember thinking it was a lucky break since he liked women and was good with them, but she hadn't bid on Dean for herself; she'd wanted to watch her escorts play with him, like in a porn movie except live and up close. Her boys, as she'd called them, were amateur acupuncturists. After tying him to the mount, they'd stuck needles in his nerve bundles and then they'd _jiggled them_.

Dean didn't care they were regular humans. If he found them when he was free, he'd kill them.

They'd fucked him, of course, with knobby dildos and equally knobby dicks.

They'd wanted to have Dean suck one off while the other fucked him from behind but Dean had been coherent enough to tell them if they stuck anything in his mouth he'd bite it off. He would have, too, so they hadn't stuck anything in his mouth but another ball gag. They hadn't taken it out when they left either. It was still in there, restricting his breathing, and threatening to drown him in his own drool. They'd taken out the pins as those belonged to them.

He'd give thanks to the god of tight bastards later.

They'd turned off the light…

Not during, of course. During, they'd had spotlights so she could see everything in perfect clarity. The lights had been warm. He hadn't needed it then.

Now he was cold and he didn't want to shiver.

Breathe through the pain, son, he heard his father say. Fuck you, Dad, he responded to the memory, this isn't that kind of pain.

The light flicked on. Dean tried not to flinch.

He hadn't heard the door open. He didn't bother turning his head to see who it was because, whether it was a new client or a goon, they were here, at Alistair's, and that meant they weren't nice.

"His hands are white," said a voice he didn't recognize. "The boss won't be pleased."

"He'll be able to charge if the damage is permanent," said another voice. They were getting closer. Then Dean felt tugging on his shoulders, pressure on his arms. He was being untied.

Oh hell, this was going to hurt.

He was right. It hurt like the worst case of pins and needles (try nails and screws) since his joints didn't want to move. He couldn't even scream and breathing through the pain was even less likely than it had been before.

"Get the gag out before he suffocates," said the first guy. "That _would_ piss off the Boss."

They handled him with uncaring concern, which was an odd contradiction but accurate. They knew he hurt but they couldn't remove his pain so they did what they needed to do while trying not to make it worse. Dean tried to appreciate it.

He tried to appreciate it when he was slung over a shoulder, and carried out of the room through a back door. He even tried to appreciate it when they went down stairs, and his bruised chest got jolted at every step. He stopped trying when they dropped him on a floor of cold tiles and turned on the hose. The force of the water pushed him across the tiles until he was jammed against the wall. He twisted and turned, trying to avoid getting water in his mouth, or on his chest, or his still bleeding ass. Actually, he wanted to avoid the whole damn thing.

At least, it was somewhat warm…

It finally stopped and Dean gulped down a big breath of relief, which was a mistake because his ribs were hurting like a son of a bitch.

"Do we soap him down?" said the first voice. Dean opened his eyes; it was Blondie.

"Nah, the boss just wanted the worst of it off," the one he'd dubbed Tuco replied. He carried a huge fluffy towel, and if Dean's head hadn't been filled with _pain!pain!pain!_ he'd have laughed at the incongruity. As it was, Tuco rolled him up in the towel, covering him from head to knees, then tossed him up on his shoulder again and carried him out of the shower room.

Dean couldn't see where he was going.

Didn't matter anyway, he reassured himself. He'd lost track of his location somewhere after the bit on stage. Following the turns and counting the steps wouldn't help him now. He did it anyway. It was better than _pain!pain!pain!_

They entered a dimly lit, oddly familiar, looking room; gentle colors, relaxing music… His brain moved momentarily from _pain!pain!pain!_ to what the fuck? It was a familiar set up but Dean couldn't place it. Then Tuco put him on a firm narrow bed, with clean sheets and blankets smelling like air fresheners. They unwrapped him and turned him over, fitting his face into a small hole so he didn't have to bend his neck, although having it straight wasn't any less painful, before pulling the blanket to barely above his waist. And Dean remembered: this was the same set up as most healers' offices he'd been in.

His mind went back to _what the fuck._

He heard a door open and tried to lift his head to see what was happening and his back seized up. He started to whimper but changed it into a curse.

"Shh Dean. Easy, easy." It was Alistair, the fucker. He used gentle hands to turn down the blanket. Soft fingers traced welts and bruises. "I see Bela used her needles: painful but no permanent damage." His voice was approving. Dean couldn't agree.

He lifted Dean's hands, examining them. He traced a path over the palm and Dean's fingers twitched. Alistair made a satisfied hum. "No permanent damage there either, although we'll certainly charge her extra for leaving you tied up. That kind of negligence wasn't part of the contract."

Dean didn't believe him. He didn't know why or how he knew, but Alistair was lying. He'd known exactly what… Bela—Dean hadn't heard her name before—Alistair had known Bela's 'boys' would leave him tied up in the dark. Hell, it was possible the demon had told her to leave him like that.

"The last time you were here it didn't go well, Dean," Alistair said conversationally. "Our little talk was cut short but this time we have all the time in the world. And I do want to get to know you, Dean."

The blanket was folded back even more, exposing Dean's ass. He tried not to clench protectively because it would hurt, and it would be useless, but it was hard not to.

Alistair's fingers were clinical as they poked and pulled at the lesions on his ass cheeks. "Scratches," he commented. "We'll have to disinfect those. Human fingernails are covered in all sorts of dirty substances…rather like human beings themselves. Nasty, filthy creatures with their eating and their shitting and their sweating. " He slapped at the cuts and brought them all back to whining, stinging life.

The demon moved away from the table to get something but Dean didn't even try to look. He was back to trying to breathe through the pain.

Cool cream was dropped onto his ass and rubbed in. It stung where his skin had broken but was followed by a beautiful numbness that nearly made Dean moan.

Alistair picked up his monologue. "About the only worthwhile thing the human body creates is blood. The smell of it is intoxicating and the taste!" Alistair actually moaned. "The taste is an exquisite bouquet of flavors. I'm telling you, Dean, the best way to get drunk is to drink an alcoholic's blood. Although I recommend giving him a bottle of whatever you fancy first. The taste of cheap rotgut always… _bleeds_ through." He chuckled at his joke.

Dean tried not to throw up.

"That feels better doesn't it, Dean," he asked but he already knew the answer. "I have it made for special occasions, which this is since you're allergic to my regular tonic. You know that's an odd thing, Dean. Out of the, oh, hundreds of men who've been through my club, you're the only one who couldn't drink my tonic. Why is that, do you suppose?"

Dean clamped his mouth shut. Alistair had, very casually, slid an ointment-covered finger into his hole and was swirling it around. It was great that the stuff was making his ass feel better. It wasn't so great that Alistair had found his prostrate and was deliberately massaging it.

"Why are you special, Dean?" Alistair asked again and curled his finger inside Dean's passage, making the hunter hiss in unwelcome arousal.

"My associate, the one who brought you to me Dean, said you were doing spellwords during the collection."

_Collection_? Dean fumed silently. It had been a fucking _kidnapping_.

"He also mentioned your spellwords were in Enochian." He pulled his finger out but only to grab more cream. This time Alistair used two fingers…two _long_ fingers. "He wants me to explore why a rough, backwoods mechanic is able to _speak_ Enochian let alone manipulate energy with it." He was scissoring his fingers now: rubbing, pressing, bumping the prostate, and Dean felt his penis—the undiscerning prick—filling up and growing under the onslaught.

"You haven't answered my question, Dean," Alistair said, stroking… flicking. Dean's hips started to twitch but he kept his mouth shut. Not that he could've answered. Like Sam and his Polish, they'd never known why Dean felt comfortable in Enochian.

Alistair chuckled and withdrew his fingers, leaving the hunter empty and aching. "Well, we'll have to work on your response, won't we Dean." There was the sound of running water and Dean figured the demon was washing his hands. Were they done, he wondered.

The answer was no, they weren't.

"Turn over, Dean. I'll do your front."

Oh, _hell_ no…

Alistair tsk'ed when he returned to the table. "Really, Dean. There's no point in being stubborn." There was movement. Footsteps. Tuco and Blondie hadn't left the room. They picked Dean up and turned him over in one easy motion and then returned to their place at the door.

Alistair looked down at him, down his long skinny nose. Dean wanted to punch it but couldn't raise his hand. By the satisfied look in the demon's pale eyes, Alistair knew it too. "You'll learn how this goes, Dean. Everybody does given enough time and we'll have that time, Dean. I know we will." Fingers traced his eyebrows, his cheeks. They ran over his lips and down his neck, stopping to smooth over the bruises. "So pretty," he said absently. "Of course, a few years in my establishment, without the benefit of my tonic, and you won't be so pretty."

No way was Dean going to be here for years. He and Sam; they'd be missed. People would look for them. Dad. Bobby. Even Ash would set up a program…

"I know what you're thinking, Dean. You're thinking you won't be here for years. You're thinking there are people out there looking for you right now." _Fucker._ "You might as well get that idea out of your head, Dean. My associate is very good at what he does. He wanted you to disappear, so believe me, you have disappeared. He wouldn't have left so much as an oil spill on the road to indicate where he took you from. Dean."

He was now rubbing the ointment on the hunter's chest, playing with his nipples and turning them into hard little nubs. Dean grit his teeth and concentrated on breathing now that his ribs didn't stretch aching muscles with every inhale.

"To the outside world it will look like you and your brother disappeared into one of those bizarre cultish communities for which this world is notorious. Perhaps your disappearance will become legendary," he mused "and hunters, just like you, will drive by the spot hoping to—" he waved his fingers dismissively "— _divine_ your tragic end. A scary story they tell each other over drinks."

By now, Alistair's hands had moved down to Dean's hips and thighs. He very carefully avoided touching Dean's weeping erection and Dean, equally careful, didn't roll his hips towards Alistair's nimble fingers. No way was he going to beg, not in any way.

It didn't stop him being very, very aware of how close the demon got to it.

Alistair stopped. "It occurs to me, Dean. That part of the reason you're so intransigent is because you're unaware of the rewards cooperating with me will bring to you. I have some women here; infertile, of course, but still young and pretty. Casey would, I think, be amenable to intercourse with you. She would be more than willing to take care of this—" Alistair flicked his cock and Dean nearly shot out of the bed "—for you."

"You wouldn't ever again have to experience a public performance… Unless you wanted to." The bastard forced slick fingers between Dean's clenched thighs, massaging the soothing ointment into balls that had been bound and abraded. Again, Dean's hips jerked, demanding attention for his aching cock. Dean ground his teeth together but one helpless whimper escaped.

Alistair smiled. "We could do many wonderful things together, Dean. I'd make you my apprentice. All you have to do is say 'yes'."

"I say yes, and someone else gets strung up instead of me?" His voice was a growl.

"Oh yes," Alistair's voice was filled with dark enjoyment. "You'd never have to go on the rack again."

"Go fuck yourself, fucker."

Alistair's smile dropped away, a hard flat look took its place. "I believe your first lesson will be to correct your vocabulary. You call me Alistair or Master. I'll even take Boss." The hand, that had moments ago been gently rubbing the ointment into Dean's sac, now grabbed the delicate flesh and squeezed and twisted. "Do you understand, Dean?"

" _Mother fucking son of a_ bitch!"

Things went downhill from there.  

  
Bobby waved goodbye to the Gallagher brothers who'd swept the corridor looking for gaps in the ward walls, weak sigils, or any kind of spell residue all along the road where the Winchesters had been attacked. Ansem had walked along the road beside Andy. He'd said he was looking too, but Bobby didn't believe him. Ansem didn't like Dean or Sam, especially didn't like how his brother liked Sam. However, Andy would've found any clues if there'd been any to find. There weren't.

If the car hadn't been abandoned on the road, it would've been like Dean and Sam had been swallowed by the ether.

Bobby finished his physical search of the attack site. There were no clues but he'd found Dean's fancy demon killing knife and his amulet.

When he'd picked up the heavy brass figurine his heart had started thumping out a two-step, and he'd looked for signs of blood because, surely, the only way Dean would've dropped it was if he were dead. Then he'd realized Dean would've dropped it to keep it safe, and his heart sped up so more thinking the older boy had been taken alive.

Damn Winchesters were going to give him a heart attack.

He stood looking at the Winchesters' ride.

It had taken him over a week to get the telegram then get his ass out here, and he could see every day written in the damage to Dean's precious car. She was in bad shape: all of her windows were either smashed or turned into spider webs and rain had gotten inside her, two of her tires had been slashed, the side view mirrors and the spotlights were torn off, and there were dents, scratches, and burn marks all over her body.

She still looked menacing.

Bobby approached carefully. He knew what kind of wards the boys had embedded in her. Hell, he'd helped them find some of the spellwords and design the sigils. He knew to be cautious even if she looked broken.

As he got nearer, he felt her hum of power. It was faded but definitely present. " _Zorge,_ " he commanded: 'stand down' or close enough. The Impala's wards licked over him one final time, confirming his identity, before they shut down. He didn't know why Sam had chosen Enochian for her control language; all he could do was be glad it worked.

"Ah girl, look what they did to you." He ran rough hands over her surface, mourning the damage.

He'd have to change out the tires so he could tow her—good thing he'd brought extra. He'd sweep up the glass and take it back to the yard to be melted down—not a good idea to leave all that spelled material lying around. Then he'd start spreading the word he was in the market for replacement parts. It would be like sending up a flare to all the hunters in the Midwest, but that was good, because if something could grab the Winchesters then no hunter was safe.

Bobby stroked the Impala's roof. "What happened to your owners, girl?" he asked. "You know who did it?" He paused, waiting, and then felt completely stupid because he'd actually expected the car to tell him.

She was just a machine. He often forgot since she seemed as much a part of the boys as Dean's bow legs and Sam's dimples. She'd been infused with power, sure, but she wasn't sentient; she couldn't talk.

But, as he changed the tires and swept the glass, it didn't stop him wishing she could.


	10. This Flight Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** The graphic at the end of this chapter is NSFW.

Sam rolled over in the bed he'd been using for over a week. It was still odd not to wake up beside Dean, or to at least hear his partner breathing close by, but he was getting used to it. Then he snorted because he was still sleeping more on the right side of the bed, leaving the left side for Dean. Dean always slept on the left so he could grab the weapon under his pillow with his right hand and instantly be ready to defend them. It was how they always set themselves up in any room.

Suddenly Sam wanted to write Dean another letter, even though he'd probably be back at Ellen's before the thing even arrived. Still, it would be a physical connection with the other man; he'd touch it while he wrote it and Dean would touch it while he read it.

Pathetic, Sam knew, but _god_ , he missed his partner. If only Dean had decided to come with…

It was a fruitless thought, one he'd had many times since the start of this trip, and he put it aside with a sigh. It changed nothing after all. He was here, and Dean was there, and they'd be together again eventually.

Maybe today he'd get to tour the Guggenheim. They'd planned to go yesterday but a bunch of streamers, what Brady called dust devils, had broken through the ward walls and it hadn't been safe. Sam had tried to tell him— _again—_ that he was a trained hunter and an experienced combat airhead, what they called an esper, but Dean had apparently made them sign for his safety in blood or something because they weren't taking any chances. Sweet, but frustrating. It was amazing how Dean managed to spoil his fun from half a continent away.

_Whoa,_ that was a remarkably bitter thought and completely unjustified. Dean had let him come here when he'd originally been dead set against it and that counted for a lot. Except he wished the older man had agreed to come. They'd have toured half the city by now, Dust or no.

Sam smiled wryly because when Dean decided to do something, he did it large. Sam could do with being more like Dean, at least in this. Today, he'd insist on getting out of Lilith's Den and seeing something of the Big Apple. Yeah…

He spread out his body in the big bed, the largest one he'd ever seen. It was soft but not squishy, and the sheets were smooth and clean, not knobby and mended a hundred times before. It even had a canopy with netting attached. It was bug-netting—normal bugs not supernatural ones—but Sam was already thinking of ways they could make the netting into something more useful. Dip it in holy water, say, or run silver or iron filaments through it. He'd talk to Dean about it when he got back.

He stretched his arms out fully, even wiggled his fingers, and he still didn't reach either side. So much room…

Too much room for one person.

Quickly, he rolled himself out of it and stood looking over the rest of his 'domain'. It had been given to him for the length of his stay, he'd been told. He was to consider it home. It was nice; luxurious, spacious, tastefully decorated… and it would never be home.

He went into the _huge_ bathroom with its walk-in bathtub and its sit-down shower, with its marble surfaces and brass fixtures, and felt like he was an alien pod person living someone else's life. Everything sparkled, everything looked new. Everything looked like it was made to fit rather than scrounged from an abandoned place just up the road. It was just like they showed on TV. Perfect.

He looked at himself in the mirror.

Dean had been right; he didn't fit here.

With a sigh, he turned his back on the image and proceeded to get ready for the day.

Even if it made him feel weird and out of place, the shower was still a slice of heaven. He didn't have to worry about hitting his head or running out of hot water or having some other guy bang on the door because they needed to use the can. He wrapped one of the big thick towels around his waist; threw another, only slightly smaller, one over his head.

He didn't pick up his used sleeping pants but he wanted to. In fact, it made him itch a little. One, it was messy, and living in small spaces with other hunters everyone cleaned up after themselves, and two, the pants weren't dirty so throwing them in the laundry was a waste of time and resources. However, if he carried them out Brady would pull them out of his hands and drop them on the floor. Then he'd repeat it was the staff's job to clean up and Sam should just leave everything.

He wasn't an alien pod person, he decided. He was the guy who woke up in an alternate reality and was the only one who realized the world was a little off.

He finally left the bathroom and Brady was there, like he'd been every day that week. He called himself Sam's escort but Sam was beginning to think of the guy as his handler. "Hey Sam, sleep well?"

"Same old, same old," Sam responded unenthusiastically. Waking up tired was getting annoying. Waking up tired and being pounced on by Brady with his irritatingly bright and cheerful voice was turning into a circle of Hell.

"Lilith has someone looking at the filtration system, maybe checking out the pipes," Brady said soothingly. "Don't worry; we'll find the problem and fix it." He held out a tall glass of Lilith's tonic and Sam took it with relief. It was about the only thing getting him through the day. Bad sleep and boredom was not a combination that made him feel energetic and happy. He needed to be doing something.

"You know, if we can't get to the museum today," he suggested as he drank the tonic "maybe we can go down to the port; get a tour of one of the big trans-Atlantic liners. I'd like to learn about the spells they use to make their moving ward walls. Those walls aren't just, you know, a little bit away," he brought his hand close to his body before he shifted it out the length of his arm "but, like, a hundred yards in all directions—even down into the sea."

"You want to see that?"

"Yeah, that would be cool! It's a completely new spell, with some standard elements of course, but no other spell has ever been designed _specifically_ to work with a moving platform. I read they're talking about adapting for use in ground transport. Maybe even re-open the rail lines." He would _love_ to be in on something like that: the creation of a brand new warding system. He'd made up new sigils, of course, but the heat of battle wasn't the same as working with others to logically and formally design a new spell. "Think of the challenge of creating something like that."

"It's only a spell," Brady said in amused contempt and broke Sam out of his daydream. Sam frowned. He was sure Brady had been introduced to him as a fellow airhead but his attitude argued against it. It was odd that an airhead _wouldn't_ be interesting in a new protective spell.

On the other hand, Sam had been so sick when they'd been introduced they could have told him Brady was a talking pig and he would've gone along with it, so he replied more mildly than he had planned—lack of rest wasn't good for his anger control, either. "It's a really _good_ spell. As an airhead—sorry, _esper_ —of course I'm interested. And, you know, being in New York where the big ships dock" okay, so that was a little sarcastic "it's a perfect opportunity for me to get a firsthand look."

By the end of his spiel, Brady was lightly laughing. "Easy, tiger," he said in a humoring manner Sam was starting to find really annoying. "The port authority is a lot farther away than any museum, and in a rougher area. I'll talk to our security guy, find out what's going on out there, and then I'll let you know, okay?"

Not really, not okay at all actually. Sure, Lilith's den was huge and had a library, which was filled with new releases and old classics, and there was a theatre room where Sam could watch the latest movies on VHS, but Sam was going stir-crazy. He'd been here and healthy for a week, and for that week, he'd done nothing but watch TV and play Final Fantasy on Brady's PlayStation 2—he'd have to look into getting the game for Ash—and he was… bored. There were no wards to walk, no demons to fight and there was no way for him to do any research. They had nothing but bland bestselling fiction and gossip or sports magazines in the library. Lilith didn't have an internet connection, which was weird since this _was_ New York, finance capital of the eastern US, so he couldn't connect to any of the message boards where he was a (very) infrequent poster.

He was a frigging _hunter_. He was used to having a job to do. Even in their down times, he and Dean would hang out with other hunters and talk about jobs. He did nothing here.

He would have said more, manners be damned, but Brady wasn't finished. "However, your morning's already booked. Once you're dressed I'm going to introduce you to your partners. You can spend some time getting to know them and then, well; we'll see how it goes from there, okay?"

_Finally!_

"Okay, yeah," Sam said happily even as he felt a blush rising on his cheeks. "That'll be great."

"Well then, what are you waiting for? Go get dressed." Brady gave him a big grin and made shooing motions with his hands.

"I'll meet you outside," he said pointedly. With the exception of the bathroom, his suite was one big open space. He was not changing in front of his blond handler.

Brady stood there for a moment, trying to look innocent, but Sam waited stone-like. Finally the guy gave an exaggerated 'oh' of comprehension. "Sam, Sam, Sam," he said with a laugh "I can't believe you're still so modest. It's not like I haven't seen all of you before." The blond ran an appreciative eye over Sam's large frame. It was supposed to be a compliment, maybe. He'd tried hinting—strongly—that he wasn't interested and Brady _looked_ like he understood, but the blond didn't back off. Sam liked the guy okay, but the flirting was getting a little old. In fact, it made Sam want to punch him.

"I was sick," he replied, voice cool. "It doesn't count."

"If you say so." Brady flashed another one of his big grins. "I'll go wait outside. Whenever you're ready, princess."

"Don't…don't call me that." Not even Dean got to call him that without repercussions. His absolute seriousness must have penetrated because Brady's slick smile fell away. He looked at Sam and nodded once, solemnly. He wouldn't forget, and unlike Dean who loved to tease, Brady wouldn't do it again.

Of course, repercussions for Brady would end up a lot differently than anything he would've dished out for Dean, which was maybe why his partner loved to goad Sam into action.

Damn, he missed his pain-in-the-ass tinman.

He was glad he was finally going to meet the women he was supposed to partner with then maybe this odd unsettled feeling would go away.

He opened the door and Brady was standing across the hall, posed in a casual stance of crossed arms, crossed ankles, leaning against the wall.

"Looking good, Sam, as always."

Sam gave a small smile in return for the compliment. If he smiled any wider Brady would smile back but a little too broadly, and he'd stand a little too close. "So what can you tell me about my, you know, partners."

There was that smile again as Brady responded with excessive enthusiasm. "Well, one of them is tall and slim and blonde. She's got a tough attitude, like she could kick your ass without trying, but I've never seen it put to the test. Her name is Ruby." He stopped then continued in a more natural tone, "She's got the longest eyelashes I've ever seen on anybody. They're dark too, which I find completely sexy."

Sam liked dark eyelashes on blonde women—a picture of pretty Jessica Moore flashed in Sam's mind. Oh yeah, he thought. He really liked it.

"What about the other one; what's she like?"

"Ruby Too."

"What?"

"I know," Brady chuckled "It's confusing, but Lilith calls her Ruby as well. Together they're her 'precious jewels'." Sam could see the air quotes. "Hence, Ruby and Ruby Too."

"That's kind of weird." And creepy, but Sam didn't say that out loud.

"Well, don't tell the boss, but we call them Ruby and Baby Ruby."

Sam laughed out loud. "So what's the second Ruby like?"

"Baby? She's sweet." A gentle smile crossed the other man's face. "No pushover, but a lot softer than the Ruby. I always think that's why they get along so well. She's the dark to Ruby's light: dark hair, dark eyes, natural tan; has ancestors from some Mediterranean country I think. She's also short, hence the nickname."

"Everybody's short," Sam smirked, looking down on his escort. Brady conceded the point with another toothy smile. "And they're okay with," Sam twitched uncomfortably "you know. With sharing… me?"

This time Brady laughed outright. "They share everything, _believe_ me. I'm not surprised they've both entered their fertile cycle at the same time. I don't think Lilith is either. In fact, I think she was hoping for it. Oh, yeah, that reminds me," he put his hand on Sam's chest to stop him and Sam automatically took a step back. A quick smirk was Brady's only acknowledgement of the move. "Because you agreed to take on an extra Invite, Lilith found a first edition of John Radcliffe's _Fiends, Ghosts, and Sprites_. It's yours when you go home."

"That's not necessary, Brady," Sam protested. "I accepted the Invitation. I don't need to get paid—"

Brady held up a hand, this time to stop Sam's talking. "She knows all that, and it's not payment, it's a thank you gift because she appreciates you taking on, not only one female sight unseen, but two. It's more than a lot of guys would've done."

Actually, Sam thought, he didn't know any guy who wouldn't jump at the chance to share their bed with a couple good looking women. The whole impregnation thing was merely a bonus. An odd thought crossed his mind and he laughed out loud before he could stop himself. Brady frowned at him, puzzled. "What?"

"It's nothing, really. A stupid thought." Brady lifted his eyebrow and Sam huffed. "Okay, it just… how much of Lilith's story do you know?"

This time when Brady frowned he backed away, bewildered. "Her story? You mean like, where she was born or who her parents were; that kind of stuff?"

"Actually no—although it would be interesting, "Sam laughed self-consciously. "I mean biblical Lilith. She doesn't appear much in the Christian Bible, a mention or two, but she's pretty big in Jewish folklore."

Brady still looked confused.

"The story goes that Lilith was Adam's first wife but wasn't very obedient. When Adam ordered her to do something, I don't remember what, she refused. Adam went to God and complained and God ordered Lilith to obey Adam. Again she refused, so God got mad at her and chased her all over until she hid or something. Anyway," he waved the detail off "Lucifer found Lilith and made her a deal. He'd protect her from God's anger if she agreed to serve him. She agreed and Lucifer stripped out her soul and turned her into a demon—his first demon."

"So… you're laughing because God decided to punish a woman for not being a doormat?" Brady's voice was tinged with contempt.

Now it was Sam's turn to frown. "What? _No!_ That's not the… the ironic bit is next. Although, I'm not sure…" He took a breath. "It's kind of derogatory too, I guess. I'm sorry."

"No, no. _I'm_ sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you." The blond put a reassuring hand on Sam's arm and Sam decided to ignore the touch since he'd already upset Brady so much.

Sam shrugged to say it was okay but Brady wasn't finished. "I shouldn't have assumed what you were going to say," he went on "but there are so many stories about the Badlands—I mean the Midwest—and how these little cult communities lock their fertile females in the attic and hide them away to keep their wombs 'pure'. You hear them so often, you get to thinking some of them have to be true, you know?

Sam shrugged again. "Sure, it happens, but it's _not_ common. And for every settlement where some guys have set up harems, there are an equal number that are complete gynocratic dictatorships—"

"Complete what kind of dictatorships?" Brady interrupted.

"Gynocratic," Sam answered "ruled by women."

"You made that word up."

"Um, no. It's a real word." Brady snorted in disbelief but waved at Sam to get him to continue. "Anyway, where was I?" Sam followed behind his escort as Brady resumed their daily trip to the dining room.

"I have no freaking idea. Talking about weird sexual governing systems that exist in the Midwest."

"It's not much different than what happens in a Den," Sam protested. "There are always guys like you who live in the Den and maintain the house or perform escort duty when the women go out."

"That's not what you were talking about though," Brady argued back. "You said 'dictatorship' which has a whole different connotation. What do they do? Lock up their men folk?"

"Well… yeah, essentially, sometimes," Sam had to concede "but usually it just means the dominant women keep all the best men for themselves. Kind of a master and slave thing."

"Ooo kinky… I like it," Brady chuckled. "Think they'd invite me into one of those communes?" He pressed the button for the elevator. There were only three floors in Lilith's Den but no one took the stairs. Sam wasn't even sure where they were.

"Honestly man, you don't want to get stuck in one. The guys? They look haggard. I mean, come on, they're _slaves_. That's never a good thing."

"It was only a joke."

Not a very good one, Sam thought, but didn't say.

They waited for the elevator to arrive in an awkward silence, which lasted until they'd entered and Brady pushed the button for the main floor. "Why do you live out there, Sam?" he asked. "I mean, like you said: slavery. And monsters all over, and miles and miles of nothing but Dust and danger. You're too good for that, too smart."

"It's home," Sam answered simply and without thought.

Brady shook his head. "You belong here where there's culture and schools and civilization," he argued. "I mean, okay. I didn't do well recognizing the weird word, but there are people here, brilliant people, like the ones who designed the spell you were all spazzed out about. You could maybe work for them or go hang out at the same coffee shop or something. What's so fantastic about the Badlands that it makes you want to go back, huh?"

Dean, was Sam's instinctive response. But it was only Dean he thought of: no one and nothing else. If it weren't for Dean, he'd stay here in New York and have the life Brady talked about. Maybe he could convince the tinman to move here, maybe someplace upstate where the population wasn't as compact. Sam dismissed the idea before it was even fully formed. No way in hell would Dean agree, not even if it would make Sam happy, although he'd expect Sam to stick in the Ba… in the Midwest because that's what made _Dean_ happy.

Sam unclenched his fist and smoothed out his breathing. Holy _shit,_ he lost his temper easy these days. Probably nerves. Most likely it was nerves. His first formal contract and it was a double feature.

Yeah, he decided, that was definitely the reason.

"Oh by the way," Brady said as they exited the elevator. "Lilith has arranged for us to go see a play tonight."

Bad mood forgotten, Sam looked over at his escort with wide eyes. "Really?"

"Some Off-Off Broadway thing she knows the producer of, or something."

" _Off_ -Off Broadway?" He'd heard of Broadway and even Off-Broadway…

"Yeah, like _really_ off, as in 'experimental' and likely to be craptastic," Brady explained. He put a friendly hand on Sam's shoulder and shook him. "I'm telling you, before the first act is done, you'll be wishing for ear plugs and eyeball bleach."

Sam laughed at Brady's exaggeration. A play, a real live New York play… _Plus_ he was meeting the women he was breeding with and they sounded interesting. Things were finally looking up. He walked into the dining room with a smile.

  
A week after Ellen had contacted him, a day after he'd towed the Impala into his yard, Bobby received a telegram. It was short and unsigned but the old hunter knew who it was from.

_Is it true? Do you have the car? Stop._

Bobby immediately sent back his reply: Yes. Stop

He didn't figure John deserved much more than that, since he'd taken off on the boys and left them flapping in the wind for nine months.

Bobby left the telegraph office to shop for supplies in what was left of Sioux Falls. It had done okay in the Storm. It had come out the other side less damaged than many cities in the Midwest, and being located where it was, it had become a bit of a starting point for all points north-west so it always had a decent selection of merchandise. He picked up food and he got himself some shampoo. Then he stopped in to chat with Jody Mills who ran the local Militia. He always shared information with her even if she wasn't technically a hunter. Technically. However, she'd lost both her partner and her only son in a wall break about a year ago, so as far as he was concerned, she qualified to know a lot more than she'd trained for. She was tough and she was smart and Bobby admired that.

It was about an hour before Bobby passed by the telegraph office again. When he did, he found the operator waiting for him with a new message.

_On my way. Don't touch the engine. Stop._

Don't touch the engine? What the hell did John mean by that, Bobby wondered. He stared at the sparse message as if there were a secret code embedded in it but there wasn't. He grunted once, almost a laugh but more of a growl of frustration—cryptic bastard. He crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it in the recycle bin. He'd find out soon enough.

  
The play had been awful, quite possibly the worst thing he'd ever seen. Considering where he'd grown up, that was saying a lot. Yes, it was _Off_ Off Broadway but the little Chautauquas that travelled through the Midwest did a better job than those guys.

Brady's prediction of wanting ear plugs and eyeball bleach had proved remarkably accurate.

At least it had been outside the Den even if he hadn't gotten to see much of New York—no view of the famous skyline—but just being outside had made it worth it.

And the company had been nice.

On one side of him, Ruby had slouched, sneered, and made hilariously snarky comments about the acting (mannequins were more flexible) and the singing (cats could do better) until Sam's cheeks hurt from holding his giggles in. On the other side, Baby Ruby had tried to swallow her appalled laughter and nearly choked. She'd given up halfway through the second act and buried her face in Sam's shoulder, giggling uncontrollably. It had felt… nice.

Now they were back here, in his room, the three of them. Alone… Together.

The only time he'd been with more than one person was that time with Lisa and Dean after fighting the ward wall break in Cicero and he'd barely been conscious for that. This time he was completely awake, completely aware, and completely freaking out.

Dean made this seem so easy, was all he could think.

"You seem nervous," Ruby said looking around the room, inspecting his furniture. "You're not a virgin are you?"

"No!" Sam protested, feeling sixteen again. "I've just never…you know, with two."

"Would you rather I left, because I could…" Baby pointed her thumb at the door "I could take off."

The question actually put him back on solid ground because this was stuff he knew: in a sexual situation, defer to your female partner. Sam took a deep breath, let it out on a huff, and tried to imagine all his tension leaving with it. "The question is: would you two prefer to do this together?"

The Rubys looked at each other. Ruby stood hip shot and arms crossed, slim and tall. She raised an eyebrow at the smaller Baby, whose smile came out reluctantly. It reminded Sam of the way he and Dean sometimes communicated. It didn't surprise him when Ruby said they'd prefer to stay together. "We're friends—"

"More than friends."

"More than friends. There's not much we don't do together." She stalked a couple paces closer to the hunter. "But I'm guessing you're not used to group situations. All those juicy stories you hear about huge orgies in remote hunter barracks are just stories, aren't they."

"You've read those stories?" Sam asked in disbelief.

"Sure have, sunshine, even watched some of the movies."

He knew he was blushing and hated it but he'd never imagined _women_ watching guy porn.

She smiled at his embarrassment. "Maybe we've watched the same ones." And Sam blushed harder because, yeah, he'd seen his fair share of those kinds of movies, usually because one of the other hunters had put one in the VCR. Dean didn't usually watch them. He said it was because none of the guys in them were as hot as Sam so why bother?

"I like the 'lost guy ends up in a spontaneous orgy' ones," Baby commented. "They're stupidly funny because how does a guy get lost when there's only one road?"

"They still get you hot, girl. Don't try to deny it," Ruby leered at her friend. The brunette smiled back, unashamed and not embarrassed at all.

Ruby turned back to Sam, eyebrows arched in mute question.

"Ah, no. No. Spontaneous orgies in the hunter's quarters don't happen. Trust me, when you see some of the hunters who stay in those places," Sam shuddered dramatically, "you'd know why."

"You meant they're not all as smoking as you?" Baby said teasingly.

Sam's answering smile was awkward. And he was getting tired of blushing. "Middle age, lots of beer and sitting in cars," he said with an apologetic shrug.

"Damn," dark eyes glinted as she laughed, "Another myth shattered." Sometime during the conversation she'd shed her leather jacket. Now all she was wearing was a tight, short-sleeve top with frills which made her look like she was eighteen. "What about the Den of Iniquity trope?" she asked, "There any of those placed out on the plains or is that a lie too?"

"You mean whore houses?" Sam asked. "Where everyone is for sale?" Dean would watch those. He especially liked any scene where a woman was featured. Give him two women making out and the guy was in heaven.

Baby nodded and Sam shrugged his apology. "Never ran across one of those either. Most people are partnered up." Sam had never felt comfortable with the whole master-and-servant thing. He'd rather stick with the straight-up guy porn.

"Sounds like the Midwest is a boring place," Ruby said. She'd finished her inspection of his suite and was sitting on an ugly chair Sam avoided because it was skinny and uncomfortable. She was taking off her boots with a casual efficiency Sam found both arousing and daunting. What if he sucked? He'd never had any complaints before but this was somehow different.

Small hands came up to his chest. "Here, you sit back and let us show you how it's done." Baby pushed him toward the bed. The pressure felt like butterflies had landed on his body and it made Sam shiver. "Stairs," she warned and Sam stumbled up them.

From the corner of his eye he could see blonde Ruby striding toward the bed, gloriously naked and completely unconcerned, but most of his attention was on the dark-eyed cutie looking up at him with such anticipation. She had wide soft lips, Sam thought, and then he thought how nice they'd look wrapped around his cock. The back of his knees hit the mattress and he sat down with an oomph of surprise.

Strong arms wrapped around him from behind. "Relax, sunshine. We'll be gentle with you."

His shirt was unbuttoned and removed even as Baby dropped to her knees in front of him. The lip fantasy surged to the forefront and caused his dick to do its own surging. A weird part of him couldn't wait to tell Dean—two girls at once, Dean: top that—but he knew he wouldn't give any details. Decent guys didn't, after all. It was one of the things Dean had taught him: a tradition he could respect… but still. Two girls at once!

_Dear Backside; I never believed the stories I read in your magazine until it happened to me…_

Fingers snapped in front of his face and Sam jerked back into a soft chest. "Hey, sunshine, don't be zoning out on us here."

"I'm sorry, sorry. I'm… a little overwhelmed?" Ruby had her head perched over his shoulder and was looking at him with one eyebrow raised, clearly unimpressed. Oh shit! This was fucking awkward but he knew Dean would have a way to redeem himself, so he'd figure it out too. He looked down at Baby and there was a hint of hurt on her face. Her eyes were equally expressive. "You're just…" he stumbled, "You're both so fucking _gorgeous._ I feel like I'm in one of those porn movies, like it can't be real."

Baby was the first to forgive him. "Oh, cutie," she cooed, hands stroking down his jean covered thighs, "We're real alright."

Ruby breathed a chuckle into his ear, "And we're going to make you feel it… all over."

Sam shivered as she mouthed a damp line down his throat starting from his ear. She nipped at the nerve bundle in his shoulder. She scratched his ribs through his T-shirt. "Feeling it yet?" she asked. Sam nodded mutely.

He needn't have bothered, because Baby was running fingers up and down his growing erection. "Oh, he's feeling it," she smirked and he panted. He loved the feeling of being stroked through his jeans. "I'm going to have a hard time getting these off safely if he keeps growing like this."

Ruby dropped one slim hand down into his lap, found his hard length and _pressed._ He groaned.

"Let me get his shirt off first, then we'll attempt it," she said and Sam knew she was smiling.

He didn't wait for her to pull up his T-shirt. He grabbed the hem and slid it off in one desperate motion. "Well, well, somebody's looking forward to this. Hope you didn't pull any skin off." But she was still smiling so Sam knew the tease wasn't meant to be mean.

When she pulled him back towards her, getting him to lie flat on the bed, he let her. When Baby's hands worked the button on his jeans, he panted and clutched the bedspread. When Ruby tongued her way down the center of his chest to his belly, he moaned and twitched. When they finally had his jeans and boxers off, and his cock sprang free, he held his breath and lay there: eyes closed, waiting… waiting…

Cool hands, strong fingers, soft lips, warm mouths, they surrounded him, tasted him, explored him.

He shouted and bucked and nearly came right then, would have except one of the Rubys clamped the base of his erection and held it back, held _him_ back.

"I think he likes that," said petite Baby with her full lips and soft smile.

"He's a guy who's watched too many porn movies," said Ruby with a chuckle, "Of course he's going to like us. _I_ like us." There were moist sounds and hums. Sam opened his eyes to see the Rubys kissing each other, mouths wide and tongues playing. They each had one hand on him and the other on a breast—not their own. Baby was scratching and stroking Ruby the way he'd pet a cat. Blonde Ruby was squeezing and pinching Baby's breast, pulling the reaction from her smaller lover.

Soft or sharp, the result was the same: hard, full nipples stood out from aureoles gone tight.

"Oh shit," he whispered and pumped his hips into the confining hands holding him back from release.

Ruby turned to look down at him, a satisfied smirk on her sculpted lips. "Like that do you, sunshine?" Sam nodded. He breathed through his nose and tried to bring his body under control. "You want to see me eat her out while you fuck me?"

His hips jerked hard enough to make the bed bounce. "I can't… I won't…" He covered his face in embarrassment. "Ah, Christ, I won't last," he admitted. He didn't see them jump, didn't see their eyes flash black

"So a quick orgasm now as an appetizer and then later we'll—" she licked her lips "—have the main course."

They pushed and prodded until Sam got the message and moved up the bed, at least until his ankles were on the mattress. His erection, full and hard, bounced with his movement and left dabs of pre-cum on his belly. Ruby laid down next to him, up on one elbow, her other hand free to travel over his face and his chest, down his ribs, over his hips and then back up right next to his cock. She scooped up a bit of the thick liquid on a finger and brought it to her mouth like chocolate. "So Baby's going to ride you and we're going to watch."

"Okay," he gasped out as the smaller woman threw her leg over him.

"She might be a little tight," Ruby explained "because it's been a while since we had a guy to play with, but I think she'll be able to take you just fine." She placed her long hand, with its sharp fingernails, on his chest. "Let's see if I'm right, shall we?"

It _was_ like one of those letters, with Ruby beside him narrating the action, speculating on how it felt, encouraging him to touch by telling him what her friend liked. He wasn't the only one touching either. Both of the Rubys touched him and each other. They especially like to touch where the two bodies joined, letting their fingers rub over his wet length as Baby moved up and down on him.

He'd been right. It didn't take long. Baby knew how to use her internal muscles.

His whole body tightened, he felt a hot wave roll over him, and then the white flash in his body, his mind. Pulse after pulse ran through him and he could feel his own wetness fill her and it added an extra kick that had him calling out wordlessly.

He wasn't even sure if she'd peaked.

"Oh, sunshine," Ruby said with a smirk which is how Sam realized he'd said it aloud, "by the time tomorrow gets here, we'll have turned our brains to liquid."

"Ooh, I like that idea," Baby hummed from on top of him, still moving although slow and deep instead of quick and hard.

If Sam had had a coherent brain cell left, he would have said he liked it too. Instead his only thought was he could get addicted to this.

  
_Dear Backside; I never believed the stories I read in your magazine until it happened to me..._


	11. Soul Man

For over a week his world has been pain; tied down, knocked about, turned around, beaten up, picked on, fucked out, without hope and backed against the wall but not—not _yet_ —beneath contempt… because he hadn't given in.

He'd been adding to the list of prepositional phrases as a game, as a distraction and because he spent a lot of time lying in bed hurting. He got put on stage, he got sold, he got treated, he got asked the question, he said no, he got tortured, and Tiny bandaged his wounds. It was the routine of his life.

He didn't even rate the Recovery Room anymore; just got dumped into barracks, which reminded him a hell of a lot of Ellen's except without the laundry and with a lot more guys. Ellen's bunkhouse—the biggest he'd ever stayed at—had just over a dozen beds. This one had forty: twenty plain steel bunk-beds lined up in regimented rows. There were also usually windows in hunter barracks, and no bars on the doors… And no one-way glass in the ceiling so asshole shoppers could watch the merchandize act like feral dogs.

Alistair wanted them called 'clients' or 'guests'. Dean said screw that: they came, they browsed, they bought. Therefore they were customers.

He felt a tap on his shoulder but he didn't bother opening his eyes since he already knew who it was. Tiny tapped again, lower, on one of Dean's bruised bits. "How many fingers am I holding up?" he asked.

Dean cracked open his eye. "One, but good choice."

"Here, drink this." Tiny's hand appeared beside his head. In it was a cup of some steaming liquid, a herbal recipe some guy's great-great-grandma used to make. It helped, Dean could admit that, and it was the only medicine he'd receive as he still couldn't keep down Alistair's cure-all tonic, but it tasted like ass on grass.

"Can't it wait?"

Tiny was quietly insistent. "It's best taken hot, man."

Dean groaned and levered himself up, first rising on one elbow and then carefully—very, _very_ carefully—turning himself over. Alistair's magic cream had worn off hours ago and between the whipping and the fisting his whole back side was one huge aching mass. As always, Tiny was there helping him move, hands gentle and efficient.

Dean had finally figured out what a dominant was, because despite his size, his strength and his on-stage persona, Tiny wasn't one. The guy had adopted Dean as _his_ Dom and happily served him by bringing him food and drink, wiping off blood and puke and other, more embarrassing, bodily fluids.

Tiny also kept the other slaves away from Dean while he healed, which was probably the only reason the hunter was doing as well as he was. Plenty of the so-called entertainers had taken a look at Dean's eyes and his mouth and decided he was competition. Some of them even envied Dean Alistair's attention—stupid fucks—but a few had sensed Dean liked to be in control, that he was, in fact, Dominant. _Those_ were the ones he would've had the most trouble with if it hadn't been for Tiny and his half-hidden alliances. The barracks was a living example of a National Geographic special on pack behavior. The strong ruled and the weak obeyed or died.

"Why do you do this," he asked breaking their unwritten code. "Why me?"

Tiny's eyes shifted and Dean was surprised to see a hint of color in the big man's cheeks. "It's stupid," he said. Dean looked at him while he sipped on the hot—and vile tasting—infusion. "I… I dunno... it was like I looked into your heart and you just stood out."

Dean had been a hunter too long to automatically discount any kind of intuition but Tiny's statement raised as many questions as it answered. "What did you see in my heart?"

"Um, 'saw' isn't the right word, exactly. It's more that I just knew, like someone told me, I guess. I knew you had an important job to do and it wasn't finished."

Dean nearly laughed out loud, would've except even the thought was painful. "Not much I can do from in here."

Tiny finally looked at him. "You won't always be here," he said calmly and definitely. "You'll get out."

Now it was Dean's turn to look away, because from where he was lying, escape was about as likely as him walking to the moon. Then the big guy shifted and pulled his attention back from the land of make-believe. "Dude, what is it?" he asked. "And, like, sit… before I get a crick in my neck."

Reluctantly, slowly, Tiny sat on the next bunk over. He leaned forward and stared at the hands clasped between his knees. He had big fists. He looked at Dean then away, opened his mouth to speak then shut it.

It didn't matter. Dean understood. "Man, you already apologized and I already accepted."

"I should've gone easier on you. You wouldn't feel so bad if I had." Tiny finally looked straight at him, accepting responsibility for what he'd done. A submissive, but not a pussy.

"Tiny, man…" Dean started then stopped and sighed. He'd only been here a week but he already knew Alistair's favorite game of playing the slaves against each other. "Dude, I knew something was going to happen the minute the boss-tard found out you'd adopted me. You couldn't do anything less than you were ordered."

"I could've held back," he said. "I didn't need to push so far in."

Dean laughed grimly. "If you'd've tried to hold back, up there on stage, they'd've buried you. Do you think that would've made me feel any better today?" Tiny looked at him, still not convinced. "You're here, feeding me this awful grass tasting stuff, and being my friend. Which makes me feel a whole lot better than having one less sore spot, so you know, get over the emo and believe me when I say I forgive you."

Whatever Tiny might have said in reply was cut off by a warning from above: "Asshole, two o'clock."

Normally Dean as the Hot New Thing would get the top bunk where Alistair's customers would have the best view, but Dean had claimed he wasn't in any shape to climb up. While it wasn't untrue, the real truth was he didn't want to be on display. It was too close to going along with this fucked up place. So Tiny had arranged for Jerry Panowski to take it over. The mild mannered switch—see, he was learning the lingo—used the better light on the upper level to do his crosswords and his math puzzles, and in return, he kept an eye out for trouble.

This time trouble came in the shape of six feet of half-crazy dom named Jake Talley.

Dean would, if pressed, say Jake was a good looking guy; dark skinned, deep voiced, covered with lean muscle that made him somebody's wet dream walking. The problem came when he opened his mouth. Then he was merely another asshole with attitude.

"Look it's Princess Deana surveying her kingdom from on her back," he said nastily. "That's your favorite position, isn't it princess?"

Tiny stood up ready to take Jake on but Dean held up a hand. By himself, Jake was unnaturally strong, more than a match for Tiny in such an enclosed space, but Jake had also brought minions with him. Dean could probably toss a couple Latin spellwords out there without calling too much attention to himself—being a 'Legendary Badlands Hunter' had its uses—but he'd like to keep that skill in reserve for when their lives were on the line. This? This wasn't anything like life or death. It was a standard pissing contest between alpha males with a hint of jealousy, because until Dean's arrival, Jake had been the Hot New Thing. He was a former federal security officer—a soldier—who'd gambled too much money too often with the wrong people. He'd been sold to Alistair, had even signed the papers to make it nice and legal, although Dean still couldn't wrap his head around the fact slavery _had_ been legalized in the US, though they called it something else to make it sound less fucked up.

"You know Alistair calls the shots, Jake. If I could convince him to like you better, believe me, I would." Above him Jerry turned a chuckle into a cough they all ignored. Jerry helped keep Alistair's books so nobody touched Jerry. Tiny's choice of bunk-mate had been inspired.

"One day he's going to give you to me on stage then the audience will get a _real_ show, not one of your tattooed freak's pantomimes." The kid's eyes were wide with anticipation or craziness.

"Only if Alistair gives you permission," Dean replied wearily. He vaguely wondered, as he often had since being dumped here, if the world didn't need the Apocalypse after all. The customers, the slaves, the whole fucking system, seemed to be designed to let the worst of humanity float to the top and set the rules for the rest.

"You think you're so tough, so _righteous_ , but he'll lose interest in you soon enough," Jake said fervently. "And when he does, I'll be waiting." Fuck, the guy was crazy to want what Alistair was offering. Who wanted to be a freaking evil demon?

"Until then…then. Now, however, you can bugger off." It was a risk, Dean knew it: Jake might be crazy enough to risk Alistair's anger. The kid shifted forward. Tiny adjusted his stance. Dean kept staring at Jake, refusing to back down.

Then the door alarm rang and the stand-off was ended.

"New pretty!" was the shout from the door—code for a guy who was unscarred and likely a submissive—followed by the standard wolf whistles and lewd invitations. It took Jake's attention away from Dean since he was always looking to add to his harem. It was how he kept his minions happy.

"We'll finish this later," he tossed at the hunter before walking away.

"Yeah right," Dean muttered back. He willed his heart to slow down.

He'd wanted the fight. Pain or no pain, he'd wanted to stand up to some asshole and try to get at least a couple good hits in. He wanted to finally be in a fight where he had some chance of winning. Alistair never took chances with him, never risked that Dean would use his hunter training to hurt him. He always sent demons in to grab him, to transport him, to watch him when he wasn't caged in here or tied up in a client room. He struggled and resisted but it happened anyways. Whatever Alistair wanted.

He knew they were demons, he fucking _knew_ _it_ , but it didn't make him feel any less like a weak, pathetic loser and he _hated_ it. He wasn't a loser. Winchesters weren't losers he could hear his dad say. They were fighters and they never gave up.

Of course, that was before John Winchester had run away from them and fucking _hid_.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Jake had been right about one thing; he did spend a hell of a lot of his time lying on his back trying to breathe through the pain. It didn't help any so it was time to try something new. Movement, for one, and something that _would_ make him feel good for another. "Hey, Tiny, you ever had a massage?"

"Like with a paddle?"

Dean's face scrunched in disgust. "No. The best massages are with the hands. They're relaxing on the surface but stimulate circulation and healing underneath."

"Sounds weird," the big guy replied looking over at the crowd gathered by the door.

"It'll feel good," Dean urged. He knew from experience that, although he couldn't heal himself directly, if he was working on someone else there was a kind of blow-back effect. His partner would feel better and he'd feel better. He just needed to find a partner he could trust.

Jerry popped his head over the side. "I'm interested."

"Do Jerry. I'm gonna go see the new guy. Second one in ten days."

"That's unusual?"

"Very," Jerry answered. He already had his feet over the side, and as soon as Tiny was out of the way, he jumped down.

"Do you need my shirt off?"

Dean nodded. Unlike Dean or Tiny or Jake, Jerry was wearing a T-shirt and the reason was simple: it fit. Alistair provided thin sleep pants in various sizes but the only T-shirts were size small. Dean was slim but he was still over six foot and his shoulders were broad, so like most of the guys in Alistair's lab the hunter went without.

It gave the customers looking down on them a good view of the merchandise.

Dean eased out of his bed and had Jerry lay face down, arms at his sides, before sitting beside him. It twisted his back painfully, stretching the scabbed-over welts. "Hang on," he muttered and climbed slowly onto the mattress and over the smaller man.

He warmed the cream in his hands and focused himself, finding his inner balance like he did before a hunt. The noise at the entrance faded away. He began muttering the spellwords; _Saepimur, protegimur, vales, valemus, salvi sumus, securus es_ —'faith surrounds us, we are protected, you are well, we are well, we are unharmed, you are safe. Even saying them made him feel better, as if he were reclaiming himself, throwing off his identity as 'Dean the slave-slash-play toy' and becoming 'Dean the hunter' once again.

It was wonderful.

He found kinks in Jerry's muscles, mostly across the shoulders which were probably from sitting hunched over a desk for long hours writing, but he had his fair share of other injuries. His jaw had been dislocated a couple times and the tendons were still loose. He had the beginnings of sepsis in his bowel from a tear that hadn't healed properly.

"Don't you get Alistair's magic tonic?" Dean asked, forgetting he shouldn't know what Jerry's body was doing.

"I don't drink it or not all of it. That stuff… changes you." Dean made a questioning noise. "Alistair's tonic makes people more aggressive, angrier. More willing to be cruel. Jake didn't always used to be this bad. It's because it's blood magic, which is nasty to begin with. Bad vibes, you know?"

"Huh," Dean grunted absently. He did know, but only half his attention was on Jerry's words, the other half was on his spine. "Blood magic."

Jerry nodded. "I've seen them mixing it up."

"Alistair or the goons?"

"Goons," Jerry answered. "Only ever seen the goons donating blood. Alistair does the ritual though."

"Huh," Dean said again but this time in dismay. Everybody in here, all of these poor bastards, were drinking a tonic based on demon's blood. Talk about bad mojo…

He pushed the information to the back of his mind, he'd let it percolate in the background as there wasn't anything he could do right this minute. In fact, right this minute he was giving Jerry a massage to help them both heal and that's where he needed to focus his attention. So that's what he did. _Saepimur, protegimur, vales, valemus_ _…_ Soothing, healing…

"Dean Winchester," the voice was gravelly and uninflected. Dean looked up and saw a dark-haired man, a little older than him, wearing sleep pants and a T-shirt, though it was a little tight, and looking at him with piercing blue eyes. "You are Dean Winchester." It wasn't a question.

Tiny was standing behind the newcomer so Dean looked at him, eyebrows raised in question. Tiny shrugged. "He walked through everyone, looking at them and saying 'you're not the one I'm looking for'."

"What is he: an Imperial Stormtrooper?" There were a few scattered laughs from the crowd.

"I am an Angel of the Lord," the newcomer said very calmly, very flatly, as if wondering how they hadn't guessed.

Dean's brows went all the way up and he levered himself off the bed. "That's probably not the smartest thing to be claiming in here, dude."

The man peered at him, head quirking like a bird's. "You don't believe."

"Neither do most of the guys in here but they'll sure like despoiling someone who does." There were whistles and crotch-grabbing but the new guy ignored it all.

"Look…" Dean gestured at him, asking the question with his hands. The guy frowned lightly in response. "What's your name?"

"I am Castiel."

"Castiel?" A blink, "Okay then Castiel… Cas," Dean put his arm around the guy's shoulder and urged him to sit on Tiny's bed. "Whatever meds they had you on out there, you're not going to have access to them here I guarantee it. Whatever you may believe about yourself, you shouldn't tell people in here about, you know, being an angel."

"You are concerned for me," Castiel asked, voice still calm and unworried.

Dean paused and rubbed his lip. He _was_ concerned and that was weird. He didn't know the guy, knew nothing about him, but there was something—innocence, trust, tranquility—making the hunter feel protective. However, he reminded himself, it could be one of Alistair's games: the guy could be a plant. He looked up at Tiny and there was a glint in the big guy's eyes that told Dean he trusted Castiel. Tiny turned around, using his bulk to block their conversation. Dean was grateful.

"Nothing personal, Cas," Dean hedged "but this place is designed to eat up guys like you.

"Nothing here can harm me," Castiel assured him, "Not permanently."

Dean laughed, low and bitter. "I'm sure a lot of guys start out that way, but everybody breaks in the end. God does not exist here."

Castiel stared at him, eyes narrowing, and Dean felt like a laser was going through him, examining him, weighing him, seeing every flaw, every virtue, every vice. "Have faith, Dean Winchester. The Lord has not finished with you and He exists everywhere."

Dean laughed again. Castiel stared at him solemnly until he stopped. "The Lord's not finished with me."

"That is correct," Castiel confirmed. "He has work for you."

Dean's eyes flashed to Tiny. Tiny had said nearly the exact same thing now this strange guy. It could definitely be a set-up. They get him to trust Tiny, the hook, and then Tiny introduces the player, Castiel, and then the real game begins.

"Well, like I told Tiny earlier, I'm not going to be doing much for anybody as long as I'm in here so if the Lord wants to hire me, He'd better see about getting me transferred." It was snarky but it was the best Dean could do as it neither accepted nor rejected Castiel's claim outright. He shut his eyes wearily and tried not to feel defeated. 

  
"You're not in the lottery today," Tiny said as he returned to Dean's bunk where the hunter was on the floor doing push-ups—carefully of course, because he had a whole new set of bruises today. Dean always fought, always.

The hunter paused to swear softly but with heart. "Private session; god-fucking-damn it."

"You pulled a scab open," Tiny commented.

"Is it gushing?" Dean asked even as he returned to his exercises.

"Nah, dribbling a little. Gonna give some of the guys fantasy material," the big man teased.

Dean snickered in response, having become well aware of some of the other slaves' kinks, but he kept on pushing himself, up, down, up, down, concentrating on the movement, the burn of his muscles, and the rhythm of his breathing. It was easier not to worry about Sam, and to ignore his pains, if he had something else to do. Push-ups were good. He could keep his back and legs mostly straight and let his arms do the work. It was harder to do sit-ups because the curling motion pulled on his back and his back always had some kind of damage. He'd worked out a modified version where he raised his legs and then used his stomach muscles to lift his head straight up. He could still feel the muscles working but his injuries stayed closed for the most part.

Tiny settled against his bunk with one of Jerry's used crossword books. The accountant didn't bother with the easier ones so there were always a lot left. Tiny was pretty good at them and Dean knew he shouldn't be surprised by that but he always kind of was. Now Tiny sat on his bed occasionally asking for help and Dean carefully moved through his routines. It was surprisingly companionable: light teasing, casual questions with easy answers. It felt like what he had with Sam… without the desire to jump bones, of course.

Jerry was out of his bunk today as it was time for Alistair to file his monthly returns. Dean hadn't even known tax collection still happened in the States but he supposed, if slavery could exist then why not taxes? Jerry's absence explained why they didn't get any warning of Jake's arrival. He was suddenly there, blocking the passage between bunks.

Tiny straightened, tossing the book on his bed but keeping the pencil, which made a decent weapon. Jake flicked the big guy a glance but other than that, just ignored him. This wasn't between him and Tiny after all.

"I see you still need a bodyguard, De-ann-ah. Afraid you might break a nail if you stood up for yourself?"

"Didn't we do this yesterday?"

They had. Jake had taunted, as usual, but yesterday Dean had accepted the challenge. He'd been watching Jake fight and the man was decent, he certainly knew some moves, but there was no finesse in him, just brute strength— _lots_ of strength. If Jake's fist connected it broke bones, but since he put so much power into his swing, he telegraphed them way before he started moving.

Dean had known from watching other fights that Alistair's goons wouldn't step in unless there was damage to property. Hits to the face weren't allowed, as they all had to look pretty for the customers, but Alistair didn't like if the furniture got damaged either. Until either of those things happened, they'd stand back and let the fight rage. Dean had found out that the customers watching through the floor would place bets on the fights. They'd probably also be getting their rocks off because they were all sick fuckers like that.

The hunter put that out of his mind when he developed his plan: a way to win without having to actually fight the guy. Yesterday, Dean had put it into action.

Yesterday Jake had swung; Dean had ducked and got a couple hits in. Jake roared and swung—fucking slow—and Dean had moved out of the way. They did that a couple more times with Dean giving hits when he could but mostly just keeping out of the way. Until finally Jake's fist, with its unnatural strength, had hit and bent the metal bunk bed frame. Within moments, Blondie and Angel Eyes had swarmed in and broken up the fight. Jake had come out of it looking foolish, because although Dean hadn't truly hurt the guy, at least he'd gotten _some_ hits in.

Jake hadn't landed one.

"Yesterday we barely got started. Guards are busy today, important guests, so they won't be so quick to interfere." Jake smiled, bright and wide and crazy. "What do you say, hunter man? Ready for round two?"

"Such action would serve only to benefit the dark forces that seek to corrupt all of us in this place," said a soft voice from behind him. "It would be unworthy of you, Jacob Talley.

Jake jumped because he hadn't heard Castiel approach, although to be fair _nobody_ ever heard Cas approach. He was like a ninja or a Jedi or something. A reputation Dean thought he enjoyed in his own quiet way.

"You know nothing about me, you dickless wonder," Jake sneered but some of the audience members were smiling at his discomfiture.

Normal people would respond with insults of their own. Cas wasn't normal people. He gazed at the dom with bottomless compassion and understanding, but no pity, before saying in his usual solemn voice, "I know you were once a protector. I know desperation made you weak, and despair made you give up the best parts of yourself. You chose what you have become, Jacob Talley, but some of us have not forgotten what it means to serve with honor."

Jake shifted uncomfortably on his feet, and so did some of the other slaves. Cas often had that effect especially when he had on that look: his 'I know all' look that freaked everybody out except Tiny—Dean was still getting used to it. It was the reason Castiel never fought. Everybody in the place backed down from it. Even the guards ignored him, although in their case it was as if they didn't see him. A cool trick Dean wished he could duplicate.

"Now, I have business with Dean so you should go on about your business." Cas dismissed the other slave politely. Jake tried to resist: he sneered and threw out another weak taunt, but inevitably he retreated when faced with Cas' blue gazed forgiveness.

Dean chuckled from his spot on the floor. "Dude, you're awesome!"

Cas' smile turned genuine. "Jake Talley is but a bit player in what is unfolding. His moment on the stage has already passed."

Dean's humor dropped away. There was something under what Castiel was saying, a code or a sub-text, the hunter couldn't pick out. It was like Cas was keeping secrets and Dean hated that. "What does that mean?" he asked then changed it to "How can you be so sure? Is he going to die, is that it? I mean, as an angel don't you know, can't you tell?" Dean knew his voice was accusatory; he didn't need Tiny's nervous hand wave to tell him that.

"It means exactly what I said. Jake is no longer important."

"How do you know that?" Dean demanded. Cas said nothing. "You know, all this cryptic shit? It's not sexy. It's just fucking annoying."

"It is one of the few enjoyments I have. You would take it away from me?" Cas asked with a sad, hurt look.

Both Tiny and Dean stared at the self-proclaimed angel. "That was a joke," Tiny said, eyes lighting up

"Not much of one," Dean muttered.

"I liked it," Tiny said with a smile.

The smaller man turned to their huge bunk mate with a look of quiet pride. "Thank you, Clif. I am learning." Tiny batted him on the shoulder before returning to his crossword.

Cas barely shifted under the man's heavy hand. Dean knew how hard Tiny pushed when he did that, unknowingly but still… The fact that Castiel barely felt it was the most compelling argument the guy had for making Dean believe he wasn't completely human.

"I brought salve," Cas said holding up a jar.

Dean looked at it. "That's the ass slick they sell at the commissary."

"That is correct," Cas replied. "It is sterile, contains antibiotics and anti-inflammatories, is easy to apply and has a moisturizing effect which will keep the wounds pliable and less likely to break open."

Tiny was snickering on his bed making the frame shake. "Good points," he said.

"It was a better choice than the commercial antibiotic ointment, I assure you." Blue eyes looked at him in reassurance.

Dean made a face. "It smells like _ass_."

"Gangrene also smells, but not half as pleasant."

An even better point, Dean acknowledged.

He climbed to his feet and crawled onto his bed. He didn't want to do this. It was humiliating and intimate and embarrassing and… and _awful_. But he hurt, up inside, a stinging itch that he was pretty sure Alistair wasn't treating because he wanted Dean to be scared and desperate so he'd give in. It might work too because having an infection in his ass…

He huffed out a breath and pulled down his pants before turning over to face down on the bed and determinedly closing his eyes. "Do it."

He felt Castiel sit beside him. He heard the jar's lid being unscrewed. He paced his breathing so he wouldn't tense up. It didn't help. As soon as Cas' hand touched his ass he clenched. "Be easy, Dean. You know I mean you no harm." And he did know it—in his mind.

His body wasn't having any.

"Latin prayer," Tiny said from his mattress. Dean opened his eyes. "He says prayers in Latin to calm himself down."

Cas looked down at him. Dean felt himself blushing. "Exorcism," he stated. "I repeat the exorcism ritual." Among other things.

Cas' eyebrows went up. "Considering who runs this place, I admit to being surprised they let you do that."

"I say it softly."

Cas gave his little almost smile and Dean couldn't help his answering grin. It was hard to get a response out of the weird little guy and it always made him feel good. "We will use something a little less provocative then," he said and Dean could hear the acceptance in his voice. It helped, a little. " _Angele Dei, qui custos es mei_ _._ "

Dean tensed. "I don't believe in guardian angels."

"Why not?

"My mom used to believe in guardian angels. She used to tell me they were looking out for us. Where were they when she died, huh? In fact, where have they been for the last twenty years? If they're real then they let the world go to shit and they stood back and let all those people die. Or weren't those people deserving of guardian angels."

"Having an angel assigned to a single human is both inefficient and unrealistic," Castiel said. Dean opened his mouth to argue but Cas held up his hand to stop him. "God gave humans free will. What is the point of having free will if angels protect humans from every bad decision they might make? What happens if we stop them from choosing their own paths because we know, _we know_ , it will lead to ruin and misery? That is not free will," Castiel stated. "That is puppetry. It is not our job to perch on humanity's shoulder protecting you from the bumps and scrapes of life."

"But it is your job to protect God's creation, right? Earth, humanity, the Big Picture," Dean snapped out. "Bang up job so far."

There was silence from Cas, the kind of silence that was almost an absence, like his spirit was communing with something elsewhere. Then he sighed. "Maybe the host of Heaven was… unprepared for the scale of Hell's campaign," Cas said hesitantly. "It… has been suggested that our leaders based their plan on faulty expectations. That they somehow anticipating having more years on earth before Hell's forces started the Apocalypse."

It was Tiny who asked the question. "How is that possible? How could God be caught off guard."

Castiel shifted as if he were uncomfortable or embarrassed. Dean wouldn't have thought angels could feel those emotions. "God is not… active in the battle. He has left Heaven's response in the hands of his most trusted, most worthy." Blue eyes peeked out at them still embarrassed. "But as powerful as our leaders are, they are not God."

"They made a mistake," Dean summarized. "They underestimated the enemy and now they don't know how to fix it."

Cas turned his gaze on the hunter. "It's not up to the angels to 'fix' anything," he replied firmly. "It was given to humans to care for the earth, to decide its future and their own."

Tiny frowned, "That's messed up."

"Sure is," Dean snorted. "We're just humans. They've got half the world closed off, a demonic virus that's seriously scary and demons. Let's not forget actual demons walking around the earth. What have humans got?"

Cas' gaze was steady but his mouth lifted in a hint a humor. "They have us."


	12. I Saw Her Again

Sam had never liked the narrow, armless chair as it was hard and modern, and low and uncomfortable. He'd never understood why something so… plain had been placed in the otherwise lush room. He understood it now. Ruby had stripped down her darker sister-lover-friend and made her sit on the ugly little chair. She'd pushed Baby's legs wide on the armless chair and was currently kneeling comfortably on the floor in front of her, eating her out.

Sam was on the couch with the best view in the room, and he was so fricking hard under his pants, he was actually trying to get some friction on his dick by rolling his hips. Occasionally, he'd be rewarded by the slight press of his zipper but it wasn't enough, wasn't _nearly_ enough. He'd known he shouldn't have promised Ruby he wouldn't touch himself. He'd known it, but he'd done it anyway because he'd also known it would be worth it.

She'd asked if she could bring toys they liked to play with and Sam, being no idiot, had said 'of course, whatever you'd like'. It was a red leather case and it had been… stimulating to have it in the room with them. Then the Rubys had proceeded to demonstrate their favorites. Little Baby Ruby was currently tied to the chair, the velvet rope went from her wrists, hanging down at the sides, under the chair up the back to latch on to a soft leather collar with cut-outs of flowers and birds circling her neck. The dark red looked fantastic against her tanned skin. There were leather ties wrapped around her breasts, holding the blood in so the nipples were swollen and ultra-sensitive. There were the anal beads, glossy and dark, that Ruby had carefully and lovingly fed into Baby.

Ruby had kept the dildo for herself and Sam could see it now, peeking out from between wet blonde curls. He was having a hard time not leaving the couch to crawl up behind her to grab the handle and twirl it inside her, to fuck her with it. And there was a second set of beads he could easily see himself pushing it up inside her, burying his fingers alongside the beads. Maybe tying her arms behind her back and making her eat out Baby with only her mouth.

"Ruby…" he moaned.

"Shh." She looked up at him and her eyes gleamed dark in the dim light. "We're nearly at the best part."

Baby whimpered and jerked her hips up toward her other half. "Oh yes, yes," she begged. The blonde soothed her as she'd soothed Sam. She leaned over and pulled another toy out of the box. Except…

Sam leaned closer…

It wasn't a toy. It was a knife.

"Wait, what?" he stuttered.

"It's okay, sunshine," Ruby assured him. "She likes it." Dark hair shifted as Baby nodded enthusiastically. Impossibly, she spread her legs even further apart. "You just have to know what you're doing."

Sam had no doubts the blonde knew _exactly_ what she was doing. She took cloth and wiped the sweat off her hands, off Baby's thighs, who kept up a soft chanting of _pleasepleaseplease_. It wasn't to her lover that Ruby flashed her wicked grin but to Sam, before she carefully and slowly drew the thin blade across the inner thigh. Blood didn't spurt out like Sam had half feared it would, instead it welled and dripped, welled and dripped, forming a thin crimson line against Baby's darker skin. Like the dark velvet rope, it looked fantastic against her skin: wrong and forbidden and so, so erotic.

Ruby watched for a minute, waiting until Baby's chanting became keening before she bent down to lick up the thick red trail. Dark eyes and hazel watched and then little Ruby exploded, bucking and writhing as she came.

A groaning whimper escaped Sam's lips.

Ruby lifted her mouth away from the succulent skin and smiled at him. "Come on over here," she invited and Sam found himself crawling closer, drawn to it almost against his will. This was wrong, so very, very wrong… and so fucking hot.

Ruby scrunched herself over, trying to give him room before giving up and shifting out and around. The shallow cut had already stopped bleeding so she made a new one.

Well and drip, well and drip…

Sam watched the blood trickle over Baby's soft skin, heading in a crimson trail toward the pale cream fabric of the chair. Blue eyes looked up at him, mocked him. "I warn you, it's a kick like you wouldn't believe." Are you man enough, her eyes dared.

Looking deep into blue, blue eyes framed by dark, dark lashes, Sam bent. He could smell the tang of sweat, the sweet richness of Baby's arousal and the spice of her cream, and on top of it all, the bitter copper of fresh blood. She was keening again and Sam stopped, barely a breath away from the cut. He held up two fingers. He knew how large his hands were, had a good idea what they'd feel like buried deep inside the smaller Ruby. Baby gasped and her hips jerked in silent pleading—she wanted his fingers, just like she'd wanted the toys and the knife.

Blonde Ruby watched him slowly, slowly insert his fingers inside her lover-sister-friend. Liquid spilled out, displaced by his fingers. He twirled them, scissored them, and curled them up until he found that spot inside her. Then he put his thumb, rough with calluses, on top of her still-swollen clit and pressed, forcing the sensitive bud in gentle circles.

Baby came again, calling out and squeezing his fingers into immobility.

"Very nice, sunshine," Ruby smirked. She had one hand on a distended nipple, lightly stroking it. "But I'm pretty sure she has one more in her." She lifted her eyebrow: double-dog-dared.

Sam smiled back, accepting the challenge. He pulled his wet fingers out, sucked them once thoroughly, before adding another one and sticking all three in. Baby jumped, vibrating with sensation overload, and Sam closed the distance to the small cut on her thigh. He used his tongue—just the tip—to gather up her blood then he curled it into his mouth… and it flared on his tongue like Texas 3-Pepper Chili.

"Oh god," he moaned, eyes closed to savor the explosion. Little Baby twitched, excited by his reaction. Quickly, he leaned back down and fastened his mouth to the cut, sucking slowly at first to get used to the rush, then faster and faster until Baby wasn't the only one exploding in ecstasy. His mind sheeted out and the rest of the night passed in a blur of sex, blood, and sweaty bodies writhing against each other.

Just a typical evening but it left him feeling more awake and buzzed than he had since he arrived.

God, he loved New York!

  
Dean was breathing, but with each movement, he kinda wished he wasn't.

" _Saepimur, protegimur_." He wasn't the one using the spellwords, not this time. He was breathing, slow and shallow. It was enough.

" _Vales, valemus_." Castiel's voice was a soft drone, his fingers a gentle caress, but if his sigils were healing anything Dean couldn't feel it. All he could feel was tight, burning pain down his arm, across his chest, spiking up his neck and echoing all through his back and belly.

" _Salvi sumus, securus es_." His fucking _knees_ hurt and he'd be crying but that would hurt too. Salt water and burns... not a good idea.

"How's he doing?" Tiny's voice. Dean could recognize Tiny's voice; hear it over the memories of screaming and the sizzle of burning flesh.

"He is not going to die." Tiny must have reacted to the blunt statement but Dean wasn't sure. He didn't open his eyes. "It _is_ an improvement," Castiel reassured him but Dean wasn't sure about that either.

"I could get some tonic," Tiny suggested. "Maybe pour it on… them?"

Dean could practically see the dark-haired angel shaking his head. "It will not help Dean. His body will reject it whether it is internally or externally applied."

Dean was glad Cas vetoed the idea. Just the idea of Alistair's tonic made him feel ill; blood magic with demon blood as the base—worse than salt water.

"Are those…" Tiny stopped, swallowed, started again. "Is that a-a bone?"

"Yes, it is his humerus," Castiel confirmed. His voice, though tight, was still placid and accepting. "Alistair needed to remove the protections Dean had implanted in his skin."

"Tattoo," Dean murmured. He hated being talked about by the people around him and it was impossible for him to not contribute _something_.

"Alistair burned his tattoos off?" Tiny choked and Dean idly wondered if they should get him a bucket.

"Just the one," Cas responded and Dean couldn't help but think that knowing it was 'just the one' didn't make him feel better.

"Can't you heal him?" Tiny asked and Dean wanted to say 'what he said or something equally witty but, _Christ_ , it felt like there was acid in his guts burning him from the inside and all he wanted to do was howl but that would mean breathing deeply and he wasn't crying, he wasn't.

Castiel ran the cloth over Dean's face.

"We cannot risk it, not yet." There was a pause and then light fingers were trailing cool fire in their wake and Dean could smell ass-slick. It almost covered the smell of burnt meat. "Right now Dean intrigues Alistair. He finds him… fun to play with and that's all he's doing, playing." Dean snorted then gasped as it set tsunamis of pain rolling through his torso. "Shh," Castiel soothed him. "If I reveal my power then Dean will become more than a toy; he'll become a puzzle and possibly a threat."

"That would be bad," Tiny said. Dean agreed with him. He didn't need any more of Alistair's attention focused on him.

"He needs more liquids. He has lost too much blood in the last few days." Dean thought he heard Tiny moving over to the storage box in between the beds but it could also have been the blood pounding in his ears because Cas was making him sit up and fuck, no. Nononono _no_. "I know it hurts, Dean, but you need to drink."

"I'm going to break." It's not what Dean was going to say but it's good to say it nonetheless.

"No you're not," Tiny said encouragingly. "You're doing great."

"Hurts… everywhere. I can't…" Cas lifted a bottle to his lips and Dean dutifully drank some of it. It tasted like smoke and seared meat. "I'm not strong enough."

"It is unimportant," Castiel tried to reassure him.

"I'm not the man you think I am. I'm not."

"You are Dean Winchester, son of John Winchester, son of Michael, son of James, son of Matthew, son of Mark, son of Luke, son of John," Castiel recited calmly. "You are exactly who I think you to be."

"I'm not," Dean repeated, feeling the schisms and chasms developing inside his core. "You need to find somebody else."

Cool fingertips touched his forehead and Dean slid into unconsciousness with a sigh.

Castiel frowned as he laid his charge's body down on the thin mattress. What was taking the garrison so long?


	13. The Wind Cries Mary

John arrived just over a day after his telegram. Bobby had been good; he'd put the Impala in a freshly cleansed workshop so it would be ready for whatever ritual John had in mind. She was as untouched as he could make her considering he'd towed her through three states over a day and a half.

Bobby went out to meet his old friend when he heard the man's huge beast of a truck pull into the yard. He hid the smile when the thing roared to a stop in front of him, reminded, as always, that the boys called the monster truck 'Truckzilla', a nick-name John found less than amusing.

"Easy, Rumsfeld," he murmured to his dog, who was filled with aggression but had barely a hint of brain.

"She here?" John asked almost before he'd climbed out of the cab.

"Hello to you too, you cryptic ass."

"Uh, yeah. Sorry about that." John had the grace to look sheepish. He ducked his head, gave his lopsided grin, and rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment. "But this is important."

"It's always important. At least you always _think_ it's important, more important than your boys." Bobby held out the bottle of beer. He hadn't shifted from the porch and Rumsfeld was maintaining a low, threatening growl. "What the hell were you thinking? Abandoning them like that, with all you suspected?"

"I didn't leave them completely unprotected," John protested. "That's why I need the Impala." John came over to the step and grabbed the beer and took a long swallow. He breathed out hard and strong—no cloud. "Satisfied?"

"Only that you're not a demon," Bobby snapped back "You're still a moron."

John shrugged sheepishly.

"Seriously John, why'd you leave them like that?"

"I found signs, heard rumors, saw things making it seem like I was the one with the target on my back, or at least anyone near me," the hunter replied. "They'd taken Mary and Jim…"

"And you weren't thinking straight to begin with," Bobby said with understanding. He remembered what he'd been like the first few months, the first years, without Karen. The Storm barely made an impact on his consciousness he'd been so… _scoured_ by grief.

The old hunter took in the sheepish look, the blush, and the guilt. "You got played," he accused.

John took a swallow from the bottle before answering with a nod.

"The thing you've been hunting; it wanted to separate you from Dean and Sam so they'd be vulnerable.

"Yeah, it looks that way." Another swallow but no more information. Bobby was tempted to let Rumsfeld loose out of sheer frustration.

"Why are they so important, John?" Bobby demanded.

Why am I getting free gifts from the King of the Crossroads Demons because of them, he thought but didn't say out loud. He asked a different question instead: "Why does that yellow-eyed bastard want them so bad?" He'd asked before but he'd always allowed himself to be fobbed off with some vague excuse or lame topic change: not this time. This time, John was giving him a proper answer.

John looked at him, then away across the salvage yard to where they could still see the old train tracks through the wall. Rusted and grown over, there'd be lots of good horseradish around them if he could get at it.

"John," Bobby growled. Rumsfeld's hackles rose in response.

"Sam's not my kid."

Okay, that totally wasn't what Bobby was expecting.

"Samuel Luke Winchester died in the nursery fire with his mother Mary. He was six months old."

John sat down abruptly, as if his legs had been swept out from under him. "My wife. My son. I couldn't… I couldn't save either of them. I tried. Fuck…" John's voice trailed away into memory. "I couldn't even enter the room. All I could do was watch from the doorway as Mary, my beautiful Mary, cut her wrist and dripped blood into our son's mouth. Then she looked at me and… and smiled. But it wasn't her smile. It wasn't _her_."

"The yellow-eyed demon," Bobby wasn't guessing but John nodded anyway.

"She said 'better than mother's milk' and Sammy started crying. That's when Dean ran in, right through whatever wall the demon had thrown up, straight at the thing inside my Mary." John gulped in breath. " 'Leave my family alone!' he shouted and he, it… the demon, started burning inside Mary. Inside my wife…" his voice trailed off into memory.

"Dean made the demon do that?" Bobby sank down on the seat next to John and Rumsfeld finally stopped growling.

John shrugged. "I don't know. I don't know what happened… not really. Timing. Luck. Power. All the above?" Tears streamed down his cheeks, catching in the long stubble that showed how determined he'd been to get to the yard. "The demon smoked out but Mary…she burned standing right next to the crib. She burned, and I could do nothing. It was so hot." He wiped a hand over his face. It barely made a dent in the wetness. "The crib caught first. Sammy didn't even cry because he didn't have time. One moment he was my baby boy and the next he was gone."

Bobby handed over his half-full beer, swapping it out for John's empty one.

"I barely managed to get Dean out of there before the room blew. I ran out into the street and the whole neighborhood was a madhouse: homes burning, husbands and wives killing each other, killing their children. I took Dean and the Impala and I left. Stopped at the first motel we came to and holed up, waiting for the authorities to restore order. It never happened of course."

"That was the night of the Storm." Bobby wasn't guessing but now the date took on more importance. It was somehow significant that John Winchester's family had been torn apart on the very night the biggest cataclysm since the Flood, shook the world and changed it forever.

John nodded and wiped off the tears. "Later, at the motel, I was watching TV, watching everything fall apart and Dean wouldn't stop asking about them. Where's Mom? Where's Sammy? When can we go home? I couldn't deal with it. I sent him outside to play. It was already dark and the whole town was going crazy and I sent my four-year old son outside."

Bobby didn't know what to say to that. It had been monumentally stupid and selfish and there was no way he could say it was alright; that it had been grief making him stupid… although it did seem to be a theme where John Winchester was concerned. "What happened," he asked instead of slapping him upside the head.

"He came back with a baby."

" _What?_ "

John gave a wet chuckle in understanding. "I know. I know. Only Dean, right?"

Bobby smiled because, yeah, that kind of stuff always happened to Dean.

"He was outside our door he said, balancing on the cement stoppers when this tired looking girl came up to him. He said she told him he had to take the baby. Had to take the baby and keep him safe, but if he couldn't keep the baby safe, then he would have to kill it."

"She said that to a four-year old kid?" Bobby was shocked and a little disgusted. What some people said to kids…

"She told him to 'tell his daddy' and I'd understand in time."

"Balls…" Bobby breathed out his surprise.

How had the girl known? Twenty-two years ago, how had she known the small boy she'd found would turn out to be one of the best hunters in the Midwest? He tried to process it, everything John had said and all it hinted at. Dean and the demon. The woman and her baby. The warning. It pointed at something huge.

"Did Jim know?" Because if John had told anyone it would've been the man who'd been his co-pilot, and his partner, for the last fifteen years.

"No, I never told him," John replied and shocked Bobby into silence. "Because Dean said something else. He said the girl's eyes flashed black while she was handing the baby over, and while her eyes were black, she pulled away as if she'd changed her mind. Then her eyes changed to blue again and she gave the baby over. Then she pulled out this knife, fancy handled with an etched steel blade, and stabbed herself with it. Her insides flashed, he told me, and she made this popping sound."

"The demon killing knife," Bobby whispered in understanding. "She was a demon. And Sam's mother?" John didn't quite shrug in answer. "That would mean Sam, the Sam I know, is a cambion?"

"That's what I figure," John agreed quietly and Bobby sat back in stunned understanding. "It explains why he could do spells while he could barely talk and why his sigils are so strong."

It also explained why John had never told his partner anything. Jim Murphy had been a hunter, yes, but a preacher first. No way he could've let a cambion live.

"That's why he's so freakishly _tall_ ," Bobby joked half-heartedly as his brain tried to process this new information.

"Hey, I'm not exactly a midget," John protested, playing along.

Bobby chuckled but it quickly died away. "A cambion…"

"Yeah," John agreed somberly. "Born to a demon mother and a human father. Just a couple steps down on the demonic power scale from fallen angels and Lucifer himself. But he's still my son— _my_ _boy_ , not theirs."

"Not yet." Bobby said followed by "Holy shit." He didn't swear much as Karen hadn't liked it, but all things considered, he thought this situation called for something stronger than 'balls'. He didn't want to be the one to say it, was sure John had considered it, but it had to be said.

"If demons took Dean and Sam, then they had a reason. They're going to try to turn Sam, use him for whatever they've got planned…"

John turned to him, eyes red, cheeks wet, and smiled. "See, that girl had a reason for telling Dean what she did because you're thinking it too. If we can't save Sam, we're going to have to kill him."

Rumsfeld had finally given up on being allowed to attack the newcomer and he dropped to his belly with a thump. Bobby scratched absently behind his ears. There were crickets and birds. The sun was shining and the breeze was mild. It was beautiful… if one ignored the angry blue-black Dust swirling beyond the wall, looking for a weakness, an opening, something or someone it could exploit to break through to where all the humans lived in precarious safety.

"At least this relieves my mind on one score," Bobby said into the gloomy quiet. He actually managed to make his voice light and vaguely cheerful.

It startled an honest laugh out of the other man. "Something about _this_ is reassuring?"

Bobby stared out over his yard. "Well, yeah. It means Dean and Sam aren't actually brothers so, you know, it's okay… what they do."

"What do they do?"

Bobby turned to stare at his friend. "You don't know."

An impatient lift of the eyebrows, a jerk of the head, was John demanding clarification.

The older hunter rolled his eyes in disgust. "You must be the most oblivious man I've ever met and about the only person who doesn't know. Sam and Dean are a lot closer than brothers."

"Of course," John said "I raised them to be a team."

"No, you idjit. Not just a team, not 'pilot and co-pilot'. Those two are _partners_."

John stared at him in blank incomprehension. Bobby rolled his eyes again. "They have sex together, as often as they can, which plays merry hell with their pathetic attempts at discretion. Now do you get it?"

John's expression was still blank, but the blush rising on his cheeks said he finally understood. "I didn't need to know that about my sons."

"Suck it up, princess. I didn't want to know either." He snagged the beer back from the younger man and took a long swallow. "At least it's not incest."

"But you thought it was," John pointed out.

"But it isn't," Bobby countered "and they know it isn't and that's all that counts." He paused. "They do know, right? That they aren't actual brothers?" Because if they didn't know it would make them no better than those weirdo Debneys.

"They know. Dean's never forgotten." That Dean wouldn't forget the events of that night went unsaid but was understood.

John drank down the last of the beer then sighed. "We need to take a look at the car." His voice was tired and beat down.

Bobby looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the dark circles under the eyes, the dirt embedded in the lines on his face—lines that were deeper than the last time Bobby saw his friend. There was more grey in his hair, more weight on his shoulders. He clapped a hand on John's arm. "Another couple hours won't make much difference. Have a shower, some food, maybe even a nap so you can think straight. Then we'll tackle your spell or whatever it is." John looked ready to protest. "I made lasagna, a big pan of it. You'll eat, or you'll be wandering around the yard for hours looking for her."

For the second time since he'd arrived, John let out an honest, unfettered laugh. "You play dirty, old man."

"Age and wisdom, my son, age and wisdom." Bobby rose to his feet feeling smug.

John followed, "Paranoia and sneakiness, you mean."

"You tell yourself that, if it gets you through the night." The screen door snapped shut behind them.

Salt lines carefully embedded in the floor didn't even shift. Sam had laid the sigils in rowan wood Dean had carved. His home was as protected as the boys could make it. Bobby had always known Sam and Dean were as much his sons as they were Pastor Jim's but now, with what John had told him, they were his a little bit more. He'd help John find them, and rescue them if need be. No way was Bobby being left behind when his boys were in trouble. 

  
"Alright, here's a Commodore 64," Bobby said holding out the fat keyboard.

John looked up with question on his lips but Bobby thrust the computer into his chest. "I already checked it. It works, or will until you get through with it." This was the third unit he'd hauled out here to the Impala. The other two units, a PlayStation and an actual IBM desktop, had fizzled and died as soon as John had started his spellwords.

John had the grace to look sheepish. "I put the spell in when I gave Dean the car. I didn't realize it would need the same computer."

"Hmm," Bobby said. It wasn't quite forgiveness but it was understanding. Sigils could be tricky, especially when done by a tinman—who shouldn't be able to embed spells into anything. Another secret nobody had bothered to tell Bobby in the two or so decades he'd known the Winchesters.

He watched John attach the final cables to a small box he'd worked into the Impala nine years ago. "Why didn't Dean take the box off?" he asked since it was obvious it didn't belong and Dean was obsessive about looking after his car. The way John stared at him made Bobby almost regret asking.

"Tell me, Bobby," he said voice heavy with sarcasm "who was it who yelled at the boys when they said protective spells were wussy? Who made them read accounts of hunters killed when they didn't have enough protections in place on a hunt? Who took away their ice cream privileges when they messed with your protections? Who was that, Bobby? Because it sure wasn't me."

This time it was Bobby's turn to look sheepish. "You didn't stop me."

"Because I wasn't stupid," John smiled wryly. "Sam listened to you better than he did to me. I told them the box was some extra protection I'd thought up and they left it alone, like you'd trained them to do."

Bobby finally gave a chuckle, conceding defeat. He _had_ spent a great deal of time teaching the boys how important good protections were. He hadn't wanted to care, but once they'd wormed their way into his life, he hadn't wanted them to get hurt. He was the one who'd convinced them to get the protective tattoos even though it had meant being dragged along with them so he could get one too. He looked at the car, beat up and somehow diminished without her boys.

They hadn't had enough protections.

He rubbed his shoulder where the tattooed sigil thrummed with low-level power. Maybe, if this thing of John's didn't work, he could set something up to track them using the tattoos. They'd been designed special and Bobby still had all of Sam's notes and Dean's drawings. It might be enough to set up a locator spell… The old TV came to life and Bobby put the idea aside for now.

On it was the opening screen of the program in rough 8-bit graphics that had been ancient even nine years ago.

"Okay," John muttered, "okay. Map program is installed and ready." He took a breath, slapped his hands together and gave them a rub. "Let's do this thing." He placed a finger on the air filter cover.

" _Anh biết tôi_ ," the hunter stated, you know me. On the cover, his finger traced the sigil that matched his spellwords.

The screen flashed, went blank, and Bobby prepared for the explosion. Then a mechanical voice answered " _vâng_ _."_ Yes.

"Hot damn," they whispered. It worked.

" _Cho tôi vào_ ," John ordered next: let me in, obey my commands. Again the screen flashed and the voice intoned an affirmative.

" _Ai làm bạn đau,_ " the tinman asked: who hurt you? The screen flashed green then black, then purplish then black. Both the hunters ran anxious hands over their beards. The Impala was having trouble with that one. The opening screen returned, cursor blinking; the digital equivalent of a shrug.

John repeated the question. Flash, blank, blink. Although the blinking seemed to be a little faster than before.

John repeated the question a third time. This time the Impala responded almost immediately. Not that Bobby had understood it.

"What?" The hunter was fluent in seven languages: four dead languages and three living ones including Japanese and Sumerian. He was conversant or familiar with half dozen more, but the noise that had come out of the speakers was barely recognizable as a language, let alone as Vietnamese. He hadn't understood a word. "What did she say?"

"I asked _who_ had attacked them, and the answer was ' _Không phải con người_.' Essentially, 'not human'."

"Balls," Bobby said unhappily because there was no way that was good news.

"Yeah."

John took another breath, a quick swig of the sports drink he was using to replenish his system, and placed his finger back on the air filter cover. " _Cái gì làm tổn thương bạn_ ," he asked: _what_ attacked you.

The answer was instantaneous. " _Quỷ_."

"Demons," Bobby translated "Did she say demons?"

John straightened slowly. "That's… not good."

"Ya _think_?"

He didn't think John heard him; his soft brown eyes were staring at a point a thousand yards away. Then he bent down and quickly traced out a sigil. " _Mắt vàng_ ," he asked: yellow eyes?

_Vâng._

"This is not good," Bobby said "really not good." He took a quick pace around the garage. John didn't even have to say it. He looked at the older man with 'duh' in his eyes. Bobby gave a little shrug in apology. "We need to get them back."

"I know," John agreed, face grim. He wiped the sweat off his brow. That he could cast sigils at all was remarkable but it was obvious it was draining for the tinman. He grabbed a handful of nuts out of the can Bobby'd brought and took another swallow of the sport drink. "Let's find out where they are."

Where is Dean, he asked: "Dean _o dau_?"

The computer, a low background hum until now, whirred into life. The map program filled the screen, shifting along the roads and tracing the Impala's path back from Bobby's yard to the point of attack. It stopped there a moment, dot blinking slowly, and the two hunters held their breath. Then the dot flashed east along the old Interstate 80 and into Chicago. The map got more and more detailed as it moved into the city, still the biggest one remaining in the Midwestern states. The cursor finally settled on one block and moved around it insistently, first one way then back as if it couldn't be sure. Back and forth; back and forth.

"You got it?" John asked him and Bobby took another look to make sure he had the street names right. "I got it."

John ordered the car to stop. The map disappeared. He put his finger down once more. "Sam _o dau_?"

Again the dot traveled to the attack point first before moving along the same Interstate, and Bobby felt hope rise that the boys would be together, but then the dot veered south around the base of the lake and kept going farther east, then slightly north until it hit Detroit. "Damn," Bobby muttered because John couldn't without breaking the spell. Deeper and deeper into Motor City the dot traveled until it circled a couple blocks. It jittered and jerked, but it pinpointed Sam's location.

"Got it," Bobby said and John gave the order for the Impala to stand down. The screen died, the computer stopped humming and the sparkle of energy that came from being close to an active sigil faded away.

So did John.

The big man's knees folded and Bobby had to lunge to stop the guy's chin from connecting with the car's frame. He couldn't hold him up—he wasn't as young as he used to be and his knees hurt something fierce at times—so he laid him out on the floor.

"I'll be okay," John scratched out. "Just give me a minute."

Bobby snorted. He moved around until he could lift his friend's head enough to swallow down some more of the sports drink. Then he folded up his jacket and placed it under John's head.

"Can I undo this now?" he asked and John nodded weakly.

He put his hands on the wires and felt a tickle. He stopped and introduced himself like John had. He waited for the protections to decide he wasn't a threat before continuing to dismantle the computer interface.

"Whose idea was this?" he asked as he unplugged the computer because it was a unique bit of airbending, an odd melding of tinman and airhead.

"The boys gave me the idea," John said, his voice was still thready but it was getting stronger. "They were playing pranks on each other trying to win some game."

Bobby snorted, that explained the merging, but he had another question. "Why Vietnamese? Why not Latin which I know you know."

"Latin is a dead language. Computers don't respond well to dead languages. Vietnamese is the only other living language I know."

It was logical in a weird way. Lots of vets had come back with a decent understanding of the country's language, and aside from the fact John was a tinman not an airhead, most airbenders liked having a back-up language to use if Latin failed. Most of the time they stopped at learning one and Bobby knew he was unusual in that he loved languages and found it easy to pick up the basics of most of them. Sam was close to him, speaking Latin, Polish, Hindi, and some Navajo because he'd loved the story of the WWII code speakers.

It occurred to Bobby there was one language missing from the list…

"Sam doesn't speak Enochian." He shifted the heavy monitor to the workbench. As soon as he put it down it fizzled and popped and then smoke wafted from the back of it. Toasted. Bobby sighed.

"No," John said softly from the floor "he doesn't."

"Dean put the wards on the Impala. He can cast, like you." It was an accusation.

"Better," John confirmed, "but only in some things."

"Is he an Airhead?"

The Commodore was placed next to the TV. Bobby waited for the fizzle-pop but nothing happened. He grunted in surprise then looked down at John to remind him he was waiting for an answer.

"He's not an airhead," John said "Not as we know it. Airheads grab energy from anywhere and put it somewhere else. Dean's talent is more… personal. He gets inside the object, develops an understanding of why it works, and how it could work better, and then he… fixes it." John paused and Bobby stopped unclipping wires to look at the prone hunter. "He can do it to people, too," John added.

"He can what?" Bobby said, sure he'd misheard.

"His power," John repeated. "He can heal people with it, fix small injuries or diseases. He practically cured Jim of pneumonia once."

Bobby stood frozen, mind racing. He'd never heard of anyone being able to do that, not even the government had claimed it of any of the airheads in their stable. "He needs to touch them?"

"To heal, yes."

Bobby filed the information. "Does he need to use spellwords?"

"No, but it helps… makes it easier," John answered. "He has a chant."

The old hunter looked down at John Winchester, still sweaty and pale. "It doesn't wipe him out like this?"

John shook his head.

Bobby grunted in confusion. It didn't make sense.

"I've seen him fight," Bobby protested "hand-to-hand, I mean, not just guns, and he's… he's good, beyond good. Airheads never get that good at it.

"Too much in their heads," John commented wryly.

Bobby smiled and nodded, but he wasn't finished yet. "I've seen Dean duck before the Bunnies have swung at him. And that werewolf we took on a year back? It should have gutted him, except he moved."

"I know, Bobby. I've seen him fight too," John said tiredly. "He's better than me and I trained 'im."

"What about your parents?" the hunter asked. "These things often follow bloodlines. Did either of your parents have any special abilities?"

John snorted unhappily. "Yeah, my father could drink days away at the track and my mother could talk food out of grocery store managers like you wouldn't believe."

Bobby's eyebrows went up in surprise. This was more detail about John's upbringing than the man had ever shared. He handed down the nuts because the guy had to be pretty wiped to be telling him this stuff.

"Any psychic ability? Sensitivity? Any of that stuff?"

John pulled himself up to lean against the Impala's bumper. He had a handful of nuts in his hand and he tossed them loosely as he thought. Finally he sighed and shook his head. "I don't know. I know when his luck was in life was good, really good. But when his luck was out… Let's just say it was ugly."

"Balls," Bobby cursed softly. "There has to be a reason your boys were singled out like this."

"Maybe…" John stopped and the look on his face changed from weary despair to furious enlightenment. "Huh…maybe Missouri was right." He didn't say anything else but climbed to his feet. He gave the Impala's hood a couple quick taps as if to say thanks, before wobbling out of the garage toward the house.

"Okay, Random," Bobby mocked as he followed "how do we get from drunken recluse to Missouri—I assume you mean Missouri Mosely and not the state?"

"Yes I mean Mosely, you snarky old coot," John said with a smile. "I saw her a couple months ago and she gave me back a case she'd been storing for me, family history stuff. She told me to look for answers in there."

"Oh yeah," Bobby said with emphasis, "I can see how that _might_ help."


	14. Mother and Child Reunion

Sam looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, not only to make sure his face was clean, but a real hard look.

He liked it.

For the first time in his life he had the body he'd always wanted: defined muscles (and lots of them) under sleek skin. The protective sigils tattooed on his chest and arm gleamed and he felt… powerful. He ran his hands down his chest and over his stomach. Oh yeah, he liked it. He wondered if Dean would like it. Or would he wonder, like Sam sometimes wondered, where all the muscle had come from? Sam had been working out, sure: sparring with Brady, wrestling with Dave, keeping in practice, but not enough to explain… this.

"You just about done in there, princess?" Ruby called through the door and Sam had to clench his jaw to hold back his instinctive growl. He wasn't sure where she picked up the nickname but he was tired of her using it, which she knew but she still kept using it.

Even if she was a female, hot sex didn't excuse rude behavior.

The fact that he heard the comment in Pastor Jim's voice was kind of creepy. It also made him realize he was stalling. He was standing in the bathroom staring at himself because he didn't want to go out there and start his day by having sex with two gorgeous women.

Why not, he asked his reflection. Hazel eyes glinted at him, telling him he already knew why and he did. This wasn't home.

For a while there he'd thought he could stay here in New York, give up hunting, give up Dean, but he couldn't. Didn't want to, not anymore. Out there—in the Wastes or the Badlands as these people dismissively labeled the Midwest—he was needed and he had a purpose. Here, coddled in Lilith's luxurious den, he was nothing but a cock on legs. He wasn't even proving to be a very fertile one because it had been—he counted the days—over two weeks ( _two weeks?_ ) and neither Ruby was showing any signs of being pregnant. Lilith certainly hadn't made any announcement.

He tried to ignore the part of himself that was relieved by the idea. He liked the Rubys, he did, but… he didn't want to make either of them pregnant.

Huh, he grunted at the realization.

His hand was up on his chest, rubbing the tattoo he and Dean had gotten together. It tingled under his fingers and he knew why he was happy with the outcome: it didn't feel right. Like trying to fit a part for a '75 Impala into their girl; it should work in theory but it was better not to try.

"C'mon Sam," Ruby called through the door impatiently. "You know you look good so get your ass out here."

Yeah, he thought, he was so ready to leave this place.

"Hey Ruby," he called back. "Do you think I could get in to talk with Lilith today?"

"She'll be there for lunch, as usual."

"No, I mean go see her in her office," he clarified, "More private."

There was a pause and he could see her, scrunching up her face in confused disgust. "Why do you want to see the boss?"

None of your business, he wanted to respond but that wasn't how a guy talked to a woman. He pulled on the sweatpants he'd brought in with him, still uncomfortable walking around naked. "I've been here, what? Three weeks?" he yelled through the door. "And I've never had a sit down conversation with her. It's kinda rude, isn't it?" He very carefully didn't state who was the rude one in the set up. It was Lilith's prerogative as Den Mother to decide who she invited into her office.

"When do you want to see her?" Ruby asked dubiously.

He opened the door and sure enough, she was leaning against the wall, ankles and arms crossed, totally naked and unself-conscious. "How about this morning?" he replied. "Like… now?"

She looked at him like he was an idiot. "Now?"

On the bed, Baby rolled off her stomach and sat up. She was also naked… and playing with her favorite little knife. Sam was disturbed to realize it was the knife—and all it represented—that was the enticing part of the picture, not the naked girl rolling around on his bed. He wondered if Dean had a little knife and what his blood would feel like going down. His previously flaccid penis gave a twitch at the thought.

Ruby saw it and put her hand over it, squeezing lightly, teasingly. "Surely you can wait thirty minutes?"

Sam gave a small laugh and removed her hand. "We never take just thirty minutes."

"True," she smiled enticingly, "That's why I don't want to pass up this morning's previously scheduled entertainment." On the bed, dark-haired Baby piped up with her agreement.

Sam smiled at both of them. He tried to make it real but honestly, he no longer cared what they wanted or what they thought. He wanted the open road. He wanted Dean and the Impala. He wanted the hunts and the clearances. He wanted to _fight_ things, save people. It was what he'd spent his whole life doing after all. It was what he'd trained for, what he was good at. He'd enjoyed the fucking but it was obvious it wasn't working. It was time to go.

"Maybe after lunch," he hedged "if the trip to the library is cancelled… again." It would be. It always was. He'd been to one play and one private art gallery: no Library, no Central Park, no Empire State Building or Times Square, no Statue of Liberty or Port Authority. And he still hadn't seen the Guggenheim. He'd been promised them all.

"Can you arrange it?' he asked her as he walked over to his closet. It was filled with clothes all shiny and new. Cotton shirts that felt like satin. Cashmere sweaters, and dress pants in soft wool. All his denim and flannel clothing was gone, he realized. It had been phased out; a piece missing here, another one there. As if they thought he'd be staying.

Oh well, guess he'd have to take this expensive stuff with him and watch it get wrecked in his first fight.

"I can talk to Brady, sure," she finally answered.

"What you can't just go up to Lilith and arrange something?" he asked because that's the way it had always worked with all the other Den Mother's he'd known.

"Nobody 'just' goes up to Lilith." Baby had moved to join them, eyes wide with concern.

"You have to go through Azazel," Ruby added.

"And he's… scary."

Sam laughed more honestly as he looked at the tough blonde in front of him. "You're afraid of some guy? _You_."

"He's not just some guy…"

"…he's Lilith's head of security."

"And he was trained by some very scary people…"

"…to do things he's still not allowed to talk about.

Sam looked between the two of them in disbelief. "He's not going to do anything to you," he pointed out. "You're women and you're under his protection."

The two Rubys exchanged a look of their own before the smaller girl spoke. "We don't want to risk it, so we'll talk to Brady for you."

"And Brady talks to Azazel and Azazel talks to Lilith who'll tell her decision to Azazel who'll tell Brady who'll tell you and then you tell me?" Sam asked in disbelief.

Baby smiled and nodded. Ruby smirked a little more and raised her brow as if calling him an idiot.

"How do you guys get anything done around here?" That wiped the smile from both their faces. "Look, I'm dressed, so I'm going to head out. I'll see you at lunch or after," he promised, but only because he'd already said he would, otherwise he'd avoid them for the rest of the day. He stomped out of his suite, and barely stopped himself from slamming the door he was that angry. Of all the inefficient, inconvenient boondoggles…

It was no wonder he hadn't been to see any of the sights if that's how the den was organized. And yet none of them seemed to think anything of it, not even the Rubys and they were _females_ ; the same gender these dens had been set up to serve and protect. Sam may not have spent a lot of time in big cities but he knew they were similar enough that if a female decided she wanted to go out then the men arranged it. End of story. The way this place was set up seemed to be designed so nobody had to take responsibility when nothing got done. It was like a tastefully decorated prison.

When he left the suite he didn't go right, towards the dining room and the library and the games room or any of the more public areas, he turned left and walked down the hall deeper into the building to where he knew the offices were. Screw Brady and the chain of communication, he was going to find and talk to Lilith himself.

The walls were all tastefully similar, so similar the halls could've become an elegant maze but Sam had a good sense of direction thanks to his father's training, and it didn't take him long to find Lilith's lair. Like any lair, it was guarded by a dragon although this dragon came in the form of an average-sized male in his forty's with big teeth, deep dimples and weirdly pale eyes.

"Can I help you, son?" The voice was kind of growly and slick, like the smile he had on his face.

"Uh, hi," Sam said. This had to be Azazel because there was a name plate but it couldn't be right. This guy couldn't be Lilith's head of security, because from the sour milk looking film over his eyes, he was blind. "Azazel?"

The guy was still grinning. He stood and rounded the desk. "That's right," he confirmed. Sam realized he wasn't blind. Maybe the eyes were a result of some form of albinism. Although he'd never heard of creamy yellow eyes in an albino.

"You must be Sam; Sam Winchester. Heard a lot about you, kid." The man grinned, but no matter how many teeth he showed, it still seemed to Sam to be mocking and smarmy. "Or is it Sammy"

Sam ground his teeth. "No, it's Sam."

"Right," Azazel agreed easily "Sam it is. What can I do for you, Sam?"

"I'd like to see Lilith."

Azazel's smile didn't change. "You didn't see her in the dining hall?"

"Yeah, but—" Sam blinked, thrown off course because Azazel's eyes were pale blue. How'd he think they were yellow? Wait… yellow eyes…

"But what, young Sam? Sam the man. Sam, I am—I bet you get that a lot."

Okay, weird. His eyes were definitely blue.

"I, um…the dining hall is a little public and there's always people wanting to talk to her."

Azazel was still smiling. "She's a popular person, our Lilith."

Sam made a placating gesture with his hands. "I get that, I do. It's why I thought a meeting in her office would be best."

"Well, Sam, why don't you have a seat and I'll ask her." He gestured toward some low overstuffed armchairs.

Sam agreed—what else could he do?—and gingerly lowered himself into the chair. It was as uncomfortable as he'd thought. The cushions compressed so much it felt like he'd sunk in to his belly button and his knees were poked up level with his chin. He hated it. He felt like a dork, a big, freaky dork. And there was no way he could get out of it quickly. If someone attacked all he'd be able to do is cover his head and pray.

There was music here too, Sam realized, some kind of bland oldies stuff, like WWII stuff. He listened to somebody crooning about something and hoped Azazel got back _really_ soon.

He picked up one of the magazines from the side table. The Watchtower? Seriously? " _It Is the End Days_ ," he read, " _Are You Prepared to Meet Your God?_ " He snorted and tossed the magazine back down. Guess his father wasn't the only one thinking this was the Apocalypse. Still, not reading it left him nothing to do while he waited for Azazel to reappear.

If he were Dean he'd be pacing, making weird sounds with his mouth, humming metal rock and/or tapping his legs to the rhythm only he could hear. He wasn't Dean. So he sat and rehearsed what he wanted to say. He recited his spells and his rituals, as much a part of a hunter's arsenal as any weapon. He hadn't done it in a while. First he'd been sick, then he'd used Dean's spellwords to bring his partner close while he, um, yeah. Then later, well… he'd forgotten. He repeated them now. " _Ja jestem bezpieczny_ _,_ " he said, 'I am safe'. A spike of pain ran from the base of his skull to his eye. He rubbed at it but it had already gone. " _My jesteśmy bezpieczni_ ," he murmured, 'we are safe'.

The pain came back, a slow drag along the same path but this time it brought an image with it: Dean staring at the rear view in something beyond worry. " _I'm counting on you to rescue me, bitch, so don't mess it up_."

He flinched. The pain changed into little bombs blowing up in his eyes and radiating out to his ears. The image was clear, then gone and barely remembered. Except…

"Sam!" Azazel called out from the door. He was still smiling. Sam stared at him and frowned. Suddenly the man looked familiar and Sam could feel adrenaline run through his system. It was as if they'd met years ago during a hunt and he was only remembering it now.

"Sam," he said and jolted Sam out of the odd not-memory. "Lilith will see you now." From the sound of Azazel's voice it wasn't the first time he'd said it.

"I'm sorry, sorry," he said as he shifted on the chair in preparation for dragging himself out of it. "Didn't get much sleep last night."

It was the first excuse he could think of to explain his distraction. It was only when the older man smirked and said 'I bet' that Sam realized how it could be interpreted. He was used to the Rubys teasing him about what they did together. And Brady kept hoping Sam would invite him in, whether with the women or by himself. And Sam knew, of course, that everyone in the den knew he'd been Invited to New York to impregnate the women. But there was something about having this guy, Azazel, leering at him and making comments that made shivers run down his back. He didn't like it.

And, he decided, he didn't like Azazel much either.

Definitely time to go home.

"So I just go right in?"

"That's right, Sammy—I'm sorry. _Sam_. Just go right ahead." Still smiling. It was creepy. "She's in a good mood right now," he added "so try not to ruin it, okay kid?"

'I'm not a kid,' Sam thought as he veered around Lilith's guard dog. He was careful not to touch him. He stepped into Lilith's Lair…and stopped. Dead. There were pictures of puppies and kittens and little kids on the wall. They were cute…mostly, but there was a tinge of weird to every one of them. They were disturbing, which matched the room. Lilith's private area was decorated like a little girl's room on a 50's TV show; painted pale pink with white and gold trim and everything had lace or ruffles.

It also had the strange pictures, broken dolls, and a fish tank with a couple orange-gold bodies floating at the top.

Sam looked around and all he could think was it was more disturbing than Azazel's never-ending grin.

"Sam!" said Lilith in her breathy voice. Now he'd seen her office, she sounded like an adult trying to sound like a kid and not the imitation Marilyn Monroe he thought the first time he'd met her. As usual, the Den Mother was wearing a pastel colored dress with puffy skirt and sleeves, and lots of ribbons and bows. As usual, Sam couldn't help but think how jarring he found her when compared to Mothers like Missouri or Ellen with their practical styles. He had to admit, he preferred their look to Lilith's. Lilith's was somehow creepy and seeing her here, surrounded by décor more suitable for a pre-pubescent girl, Sam was even more sure he'd made the right decision to leave.

The Den Mother was sitting on a pink-striped sofa that looked almost as uncomfortable as the chairs outside but hard instead of soft. She patted the empty spot beside her but Sam picked one of the stiff-backed armchairs instead.

"Tea, Sam?" she asked and broke into his thoughts. He shook his head. He shook his head to her offers of coffee, juice and soda as well.

"Not a social call then," she said, sitting back a little on her brocade-covered sofa.

"No," Sam confirmed. "I was wondering... I was wondering if you could tell me if either of the Rubys is pregnant. It's been two weeks," he rushed on "so if it was going to happen, it should have by now, right? I mean, considering…" He broke off, unable to finish the sentence.

Lilith wasn't that shy. "Considering how busy you all have been?"

Two weeks, and it still felt wrong to talk about it out loud. "Yeah. So… are they?"

Lilith smiled at him, coy and bright, "Aren't you happy here? Aren't you having fun?"

"That's not… It's not about that. You invited me here to do a-a job. If I haven't done it by now I'm never going to. Plus," he swallowed "I want to go home."

She laughed, a light, tinkling sound. "Silly! That's not your home."

"Of course it is. That's where my family's at."

"But they're not your family, Sam: not your real family," she said seriously, leaning forward slightly and frowning a little. "You _do_ know that, right?"

"I-I don't know what you mean." He hoped he didn't know what she meant because then this would be a bad place to be off-balance and without back-up.

"I mean," she spread the word into about ten syllables. He'd heard Asher do the same thing when he thought the people around him were dense, but he had an excuse: he was only six. "John Winchester isn't your father."

"Are you saying Mom was unfaithful?" It was a stall, a way of fishing for more information.

He needn't have bothered—Lilith was more than willing to share. She gave another tinkling laugh. "No, silly! I'm saying Mary Winchester wasn't your mother. Oh she was _Sam Winchester's_ mother. But you're not Sam Winchester, not really. That's just the name you're using."

Sam's heart kicked up a notch and he kind of wished he'd accepted her offer of a drink because his throat had dried up like the L.A. River in August. And he needed to get out of here because how could this woman know that? "That's… that's ridiculous. Why would you say something like that?"

"Because _I'm_ your mother." She laid a hand on his arm and his skin tried to run away from the touch. "Not literally, of course; _I_ wasn't possessing the woman's body, but I personally picked the demon that would birth you and the human body it would use. That kind of makes me your parent, doesn't it?"

Sam's mind had mostly stopped after 'demon'. "You're a demon?"

"Of course," she smiled brightly. "Just about everybody here is. Oh we have a few human sycophants lying around. Sometimes you need a full mortal to get past certain barriers, plus they taste good, but the rest of us are demons."

"The Rubys?" he had to ask, had to know.

She smiled as if she could read his mind—maybe she could. "Uh-huh. Two of my most trusted agents, actually. They took a great deal of care choosing their bodies, Sam. They wanted to please you."

" _Please_ me?" he spat out. God, he was going to be sick. "I've been having sex with demon-possessed bodies. That's like rape or, or necrophilia!" She rolled her eyes at his dramatics. "Oh God, what if I got one of them pregnant?"

"Relax, Sam. Cambions are infertile. You can't get anything pregnant."

His stomach lurched. "How—" He couldn't ask her how she knew because he'd be confirming it and she could be guessing. God he hoped she was guessing. "I'm not… I mean, I think it's time for me to go." He stood up.

She laughed but this time there was less girlish tinkling and more evil gloating. "You're not going anywhere, Sam. You were specially made to be our Father's vessel. We lost you once. That's not going to happen again."

Behind him the door opened and he turned to see Azazel and a couple of the other guys who lived at the den blocking his only way out. One of them was slim and dark-haired and familiar. Tom, it was Tom from Ellen's. Meg's brother, who tried to drag him out through the Impala's broken window. Sam was moving before the memory fully formed, putting his back to a wall, keeping all his enemies in sight, but he remembered now. Dean had flown over the hood of the Impala, leaving only his feet visible, and a yellow-eyed man had stood over him. Yellow eyes. _Azazel._ "What did you do to Dean?"

"Your first thought is of your so-called brother?" Lilith asked in amazement.

Sam didn't bother answering because he was too busy muttering spellwords under his breath: protections, boosts, anything to give him an edge in, what he was forced to admit, would probably be a very short and one-sided fight.

"Don't worry, Sammy," Azazel said "I found a special place for good ole Dean. They'll take real good care of him."

Sam wasn't reassured.

" _Exorciza—"_ he began. He had to stop when sharp pains ran through his body making his lungs seize and his fingers numb.

"Tsk, tsk," Lilith chided. She looked at him with blank white eyes. "Demons or, you know, cambions filled with demon's blood, can't do exorcisms. It would be like a kind of suicide, and Lucifer's father has never been big on that."

Demon's blood, little Ruby's blood. She was a demon and he'd been drinking her blood so he'd been—

It was too much for Sam's stomach. Even the threat posed by Azazel and his team wasn't enough to stop him from bending at the waist, and puking all over Lilith's nice white rug. Even demons recoiled from the smell, which was good because it gave him some time to recover and to act. He made a break for it, a run for the exit. It was futile and he knew it, but he had to try. He tossed spellwords left and right, and managed to make it to the door before Lilith's power, tossed from her out flung hand, lit up the room and froze him in place. It didn't hurt, but it didn't feel great either.

"Really," she pouted. "How rude."

" _Nie masz kontroli mnie_ ," he whispered, 'you don't control me', except for the way she actually was. He formed the sigil in his mind since he couldn't move his fingers. It didn't work very well but it was better than standing here, stupid and frozen. He could feel the force holding him loosen… just a little.

"Are you sure this is going to work?" he heard Azazel asking. It took Sam a moment to realize the demon wasn't talking to him. "He isn't exactly jumping for joy, are you Sammy?"

"It's not like your plans did so great, 'Zazel."

Sam could see them now, facing each other like rivals rather than allies. Lilith had her hands on her hips and was pouting. Azazel's smile was crooked but still there. "You just don't want to die," the demon accused her.

She rolled her eyes. "It was never going to come up," she mocked. "You lost. To _me_. Now get over it."

The silence stretched. They stared at each other and slowly their eyes lost their human camouflage. His turned an acid yellow—cloudy and toxic. Hers were ghost white. Sam could feel the pressure between them, pushing, searching for weakness. The other demons, Brady and Tom, were flinching, cringing back and away from the dueling couple. Sam wished he could retreat too because it felt like getting lashed with a live electric cable. Cracks appeared in the walls. The furniture bounced and fabric split.

He could move his fingers now and he twitched out his spellword. He could feel her control of him loosen a little more.

Then it exploded.

White light and pain. Muscles locked and burning. Useless screams filling uncaring ears. Bubbling, brainless, _god_ let it end…

When it did, he was collapsed on the floor in a trembling heap. Bits of furniture, and one of the nameless demons from the door, covered him. He wanted to throw up again. He wanted to die. He wanted to lie here forever in a brain-dead haze because he _knew_ any movement on his part, however slight, was going to move through his body like wolverine teeth.

"Okay," Lilith said cheerfully "Now that _that's_ settled, get this mess cleaned up like a good boy." Azazel growled so Sam knew he'd made it through the power storm.

"Take him back to his room," she ordered. "Make sure it hurts. Then give him something to drink to make him feel better and _don't_ let him spit it up." She meant blood. They wanted him to drink more blood. His stomach rolled and set off firecrackers of pain in his guts.

The air crackled with leftover power. Sam could've grabbed it. He tried, reaching out with his mind, but it was as painful as physical movement so he stopped and tried to think of something other than _ow-ow-ow-ow_. Unfortunately, the only thing that came to mind was how much he wanted to kill them both, and kill the Rubys too since they were both lying bitches. Hard on that thought was fear about what had happened to Dean. They hadn't wanted him, didn't need him, so what had they done with him?

A new determination fixed his jaw. Forget killing these bastards. He needed to get out of here and find his partner. Three weeks… he hoped Dean would still be alive. Escape plans and search patterns filled his mind.

When they hauled him back to his room, he didn't fight… much.  
 

_LIlith was somehow creepy and seeing her here, surrounded by decor more suitable for pre-pubescent girl,  
Sam was even more sure he'd made the right decision to leave._  


	15. I'm a Ramblin' Man

John was driving while Bobby sorted through the case of Winchester family history. Bobby would've loved to have gotten behind the wheel of Truckzilla, but as the Airhead it was his job to maintain awareness of the sigils and the ward wall. So far they were boringly intact, so that was good. Not so good was the noise pouring from the speakers. Jimi Hendrix, the Guess Who and Nazareth weren't what Bobby considered appropriate music for Oh-My-God-Early in the morning but it was what he was stuck with. He snuck out a hand only to have it slapped away.

"Winchester," he growled in warning.

John's cheeks were a little red with embarrassment, as if the action had been automatic, but the hunter didn't back down. "You know the rule, Bobby."

"It's a stupid rule," he argued. "I'll never get to pick the music because I'll never get to drive."

John frowned at him. "Driver picks the music…" he started.

"Shotgun shuts his cakehole," Bobby finished in a mocking sing-song. He ignored John's muttered "damn straight" to ask "What is wrong with Waylon Jennings or Ray Charles? They make good music."

"Because they'll put me to sleep," John explained. "I need something jarring to keep me awake after the lousy sleep I had. Your couch is a medieval torture device."

"You could've used the beds upstairs."

John's face paled. "Uh-uh. No way. Not after you telling me… My _boys_ slept on those beds."

Oh yeah, Bobby thought, this was gonna be fun. "They did more than sleep," he said. "A _lot_ more, judging by the noises." John's fingers tightened on the steering wheel but the tinman said nothing. "Not exactly quiet are they, your boys?" Bobby pushed.

John choked, the truck even swerved a little, and Bobby swallowed back his laughter.

"Okay, time for a change of subject," the eldest Winchester said desperately. "What have you found out?"

"That your taste in music seriously sucks gas?" And it was on: blues vs. rock; country vs. crotch-rock. Men singers vs. boys whose pants were too tight. It was fun and silly, and neither one of them took it seriously. It felt good and he enjoyed it while he lasted. Unfortunately, it couldn't last too long. The tasks ahead wouldn't be easy, even with whatever help his message drummed up. Soon enough the laughter drained from their voices and the smiles faded from their faces. John's brow filled with concern once again.

"Did you find anything that will help them?" The question was quiet, wanting to hope but expecting disappointment.

"What I found out was the men in your family—and there have been only men: no daughters—have been soldiers and hunters back I-don't-know-how-many generations. I mean they _like_ to fight."

John's face froze, blank and contained. "I already knew that."

Bobby shrugged in silent apology. He lifted a small clothbound book. "This was your mother's journal. She met your dad during World War Two and they got married when he was on leave in Hawaii, but once the war was over, it didn't go so well for him."

John scowled. "He was a gambler, a drunk, and a son of a bitch."

"He was a decorated war hero. Distinguished Service Cross _and_ the Navy Cross. He didn't get those for being a bastard." The other man clenched his jaw and kept silent. Bobby knew why John was upset. Anne Winchester had documented being beaten and raped by her husband, Michael. She hadn't called it rape of course. Back then being married meant she'd automatically given consent. Forcing your wife wasn't a crime; hell, it wasn't even considered morally wrong, didn't change what it was.

"Despite what he turned into afterwards—battle fatigue, or Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder they call it now—his commanding officers considered him one of the best natural leaders they'd ever seen."

"Whatever," John dismissed. His fingers were white where they gripped the wheel.

"Your grandfather, James Winchester, was also a soldier: World War One. He joined the British Army in 1915, and despite being a Yank, had reached the rank of staff-sergeant by 1918. He met your grandmother in England, brought her back to Texas and became a Ranger where it seems, from these letters of commendation, he did very well."

This time John's smile was real. "Texas Ranger? You shitting me?" Bobby held up a tarnished badge. "Hot damn," he chuckled "Gramps was a hunter."

"So was his father. Matthew Winchester fought in Cuba under Roosevelt, worked for a time as a cowboy before being hired by the Oklahoma Territory as a Sheriff. Legalized bounty hunting." There was a scraping along his awareness as they crossed a sigil line.

"Like Clint Eastwood in Hang 'Em High?" John's smile was even wider.

"Hopefully without the 'being dragged around by the neck part'," Bobby mocked and John snorted in agreement. Bobby carefully picked up a small leather notebook. "This is his arrest book. He did pretty good: well enough to retire in his early 40s, buy a ranch and get married."

"What happened to the land?" John asked because his father had never mentioned them as being property owners.

"Hmm," Bobby flipped through a few pages. "James signed it over to his younger brother. Apparently, your granddad wanted to see the world."

John laughed. That sounded like an ancestor of his.

"Mark Winchester, your great-great-grandfather," Bobby said looking at ragged clippings from old newspapers carefully mounted in a scrapbook "Seems to have spent a lotta time saving people's lives from unexplained phenomena all over the old west. His death was actually announced in lots of the local papers and there are articles wondering who'll keep the settlers safe from 'the unknown' now."

"A Hunter?" John asked and Bobby could hear the capital 'H'.

"Definitely." Bobby turned the page on a book held together more from habit than anything else. "This is his journal. Werewolves… Vampires of course… And shunka warakins?"

John looked at him, "What?"

"Shunka warakins." Bobby read the faded ink. "A type of wolf creature, highly intelligent and able to cloak itself in shadow. Hunts in pairs. Huh," he continued "That's a new one."

"You mean there's something you didn't know?" John said in exaggerated shock.

"Blow me Winchester," the older man replied without heat, engrossed in reading the ancient journal. He heard John chuckle at him but he didn't care. There were creatures in here that hadn't been seen in over a hundred years, possibly hunted into extinction or perhaps gone into hiding. It was a unique treasure trove of information that needed to be transcribed and disseminated as soon as possible. As he read he muttered spellwords over the pages, creating sigils of preservation and protection. And then he saw the drawing and he stopped.

"Oh my god," he breathed.

"What?" John asked, trying to catch a peek at the page Bobby was looking at.

"I don't believe it."

" _What?_ " John repeated more urgently.

Carefully Bobby put the journal aside—giving absent thanks for Truckzilla's wide bench seat—and dug underneath the papers and the scrapbooks and pulled out a plain wooden box. He held it reverently before softly, quietly, opening the lid. "I thought it was just a legend."

"That _what_ was a legend?"

"This," Bobby said simply, holding up the weapon. "This gun. This is Samuel Colt's gun." He lifted it higher, reading the inscription: _non timebo mala_.

"That gun?" John asked incredulously. " _That's_ Colt's gun?"

Bobby looked down at the case where seven bullets remained, safely nestled in the special case. "Yes, John, _this_ gun. Think I don't know what I'm looking at?" Bobby mocked. "Moron."

"No, I don't doubt that's the Colt; it's just I heard it was out in Colorado with Daniel Elkins, remember him?" Bobby nodded because he did remember Daniel from the days before the old vampire hunter became a recluse. John continued "I mean, it was supposed to have disappeared back in the mid-1880's and yet here it is, in my family box." Bobby could already see where Winchester was going with his little freak out.

"How the hell did Colt's super-gun out of legend end up in my father's suitcase?" He glared at the older hunter. "And why, by all that's holy, did my father not sell it at some point in his miserable life?"

"Because his wife hid it on him," Bobby said.

John looked at him in shock.

"She'd let him find the jewelry and her emergency stash of food money but she never let him find her suitcase. This… is essentially hers," the old hunter said, poking his boot into the old leather case, "not his. She read the articles and the diaries, not him."

John's cheeks flexed as he clenched his jaw. "She deserved better than him."

"So did you, Winchester," Bobby stated and if there was a catch in his voice it was from jawing so long without a drink.

He dug through the case, pulling out another scrapbook and keeping his attention focused on the spidery handwriting. He read quietly for a time, making notes in his own journal, trying to find out when and how Mark Winchester had acquired the Colt.

"How far you wanna go today?" John asked and broke his concentration.

He looked out the window to see the sky had finally lost the last hints of morning. "We should make La Crosse, right?" It would be about the half-way mark.

"No point," John answered, "The road's out between it and Madison. We have to swing south to Des Moines so… it's either Des Moines for a full night's rest or push through to Davenport."

Bobby thought about it, weighing everything he knew and everything he'd learned in the past year: from John, the boys, his own research… hell, even Crowley's opinion got thrown into the mix. It all pointed to Something Big happening soon. He picked the furthest township and John grunted agreeably. Bobby poured another cup of coffee out of the huge thermos he'd filled this morning and shared it with his pilot. He hardly noticed when John passed it back more than half empty because he'd found something—the missing something that kind of made it all make sense. Except it didn't make sense at all.

"This doesn't make sense," he muttered, flipping forward a page. "Can't be right."

"What?" John asked, looking over Bobby's way.

Bobby didn't answer, lost in his unbelievable find. It couldn't be right. The woman had to have been deluded…

Except demons walked the earth, magic was real, and someone had kidnapped the Winchester boys. He flipped back over his notes and counted. It worked out. "Balls."

" _What?_ " John snapped.

"John Winchester came to America sometime in the late 1820's. He married a good Irish Catholic girl called, by coincidence, Mary." He noticed John going tense in his seat. "In 1828, Mary wrote about how the Archangel Michael visited them and told them he needed their help in fulfilling a destiny."

"Whoa, whoa! Hold on." John lifted his hand to stop Bobby. He was still holding the coffee cup in it. He frowned and dropped the metal lid into the empty ashtray. "Michael? The leader of the heavenly host? Dropped by my great-great-whatever grandparents to have a chat?"

Bobby stared at him. "That's what I said. Can I finish now?" John snorted. Bobby took it as a yes.

"This is what she wrote: 'He asked for the use of John's body so a child could be born, not wholly human but not nephilim, which would make us all unclean and damned. He told us; only a child of our child would be able to fight the final battle for he would be a great warrior and given great gifts. At first John did not believe, but then the Archangel showed us the future and a world where evil winds blow unchecked and the forces of Satan rise. "It is Armageddon," he said and I believed. I wanted to say yes right away but it was John's decision as my husband and as the one who would give up his body to the Archangel'."

Bobby grabbed a drink of water and John glared at him. Bobby rolled his eyes and continued reading. "At first John didn't believe, he had not the same faith as I, but he was a good man. We gave our consent and he was filled with a great presence. It is immodest, and not something I should notice, but my husband, as himself, was a fine companion in the marriage bed. Despite it being near the sin of lust, I have always looked forward to our nights together."

John chuckled, "Great-grandpa was a stud."

"Focus, John," Bobby said prissily because who liked to know their great-great-whatever was good in bed? "She goes on to say that Michael needed some encouragement—" John choked. Bobby could forgive him that. "But they eventually got the deed done. It took about a week for her to conceive. He hung around a week longer to make sure she didn't, you know, _lose_ it and then he vacated her husband's body and life went on almost as normal."

"Almost?"

The airhead skimmed the journal. "She never got sick. She was hungry as a bear. She felt, um, disconnected I guess, and according to her husband her skin hummed with static electricity or something."

John said scornfully, "You're saying she carried a nephilim and all she did was resonate a little more?"

Another drink of water, because he was thirsty, not because he wanted to tease the man beside him. "That looks to be about it."

"Nephilim are… monsters, huge and ugly," John argued. "Their power is supposed to be unbelievable."

"Maybe it wasn't a true nephilim?" Bobby suggested. "Michael was inside a human host so maybe it was only half or something."

"That's how cambions are made," John said uncomfortably. Bobby shrugged and went back to the journal. He ignored John tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. John changed the tape to something a little less screechy and Bobby felt some of his tension drain away.

"They documented nearly every day of her pregnancy," he summarized. "Probably didn't want to leave out any detail that might be important."

John laughed. "No shit. It's not every day a simple Irish girl gets to give birth to an angel's baby."

"Well, it may have been momentous for them but it sure makes for boring reading."

John's smile faded. "Boring sounds good, about now." Bobby couldn't argue that. There was a Chinese curse about living in interesting times. They'd had nothing _but_ interesting times for the last twenty years: it was getting kind of old.

He continued reading, wading through faded reports of meals and aches until he reached the last entry. "Mary died in childbirth," Bobby said quietly. "John added the birth information. Their son, Luke, filled both his hands. The mid-wife had to reach in and pull him out." Bobby's stomach rolled and he swallowed hastily and breathed deeply. "He was born, near as John could figure, on January 24, 1828."

January 24… Dean's birthday.

"Oh, and Michael was there. He took over John's body to make sure the baby survived."

"I don't—" the current John Winchester worked his jaw and rippled his fingers over the steering wheel but Bobby could see the steel tension in his body that refused to budge.

"It gets even better," the hunter said. "I recounted and Dean is the seventh son born in a line of sons since John was taken over.

"Seventh son of a seventh son?" John turned to look at him incredulously.

"Sorta," Bobby half shook his head "but more, you know, oldest son to oldest son. Considering the lore, it would explain the healing and being able to see inside things… and people." That part made Bobby uncomfortable because he could remember getting a couple of Dean's famous massages and now he was wondering what the boy had seen inside him that had made him offer.

John wasn't listening; he was digging through his tapes, keeping only one eye on the empty road. He found the one he wanted with a soft triumphant sound. "Iron Maiden has a song about the seventh son of a seventh son," he said.

"You're not going to make me listen to it, are you?" Bobby groaned.

"The lyrics are in the fold-out," the tinman growled impatiently. "Read them, I want to see if they match."

"Yessir, bossman," he growled back but he still took the cassette and pulled out the lyric sheet. " _Here they stand brothers them all_ ," he read. " _All the sons divided they'd fall_. _Here await the birth of the son, the seventh, the heavenly, the chosen one_. OOooOoOooOo," he mocked. John glared and Bobby smirked before continuing. " _Here the birth from an unbroken line. Born the healer the seventh, his time unknowingly blessed and as his life unfolds slowly unveiling the power he holds_."

He stopped and stared at the words. "Well," he muttered.

"Yeah," John agreed. "There's something in there about both sides trying to use him."

Bobby lifted the sheet, wishing the print wasn't so small. "Um…here: _they watch the progress he makes the Good and the Evil_ —heaven and hell, I presume— _which path will he take both of them trying to manipulate the use of his powers before it's too late._ Balls," he said this time.

"Go on," John said, nodding at him. "There's more."

" _Seventh son of a seventh son,_ repeat endlessly _, oo-oo-ooo-oo_ ," he muttered but he knew it lacked the mocking quality of before. " _Today is born the seventh one born of woman the seventh son and he in turn of a seventh son. He has the power to heal. He has the gift of the second sight. He is the chosen one, so it shall be written, so it shall be done_." Bobby finished.

"Except for the 'of a seventh son' part, that's accurate," John said. "That's Dean."

"Visions?"

"Instincts. Gut feelings that usually turn out to be right."

"Huh," Bobby grunted. "Seven has always been a powerful number: mystically, spiritually, and magically."

"I'm thinking we may have got it wrong," John said slowly. "I always thought Sam would be the target but maybe it was Dean?"

Bobby thought back to Crowley's last visit, when the boys had been there reading the report the crossroads demon had freely given him. What was it he'd said? The boys were weapons?

"Maybe they both are."

John looked at him, silently demanding more even though Bobby hadn't meant to say it out loud because it was essentially instinct talking.

"Think about it," he said finally. "If this _is_ Revelation and the Apocalypse, then Heaven and Hell are going to have one hell of battle here on Earth. Which means Lucifer is going to have to come out of the Pit and Michael's going to have to come out of Heaven, right?" John nodded.

"Neither Michael nor Lucifer will have physical form on earth. I'm guessing they're going to need them to stage their cage-match."

"So Sam and Dean are being set up to, to 'host' Lucifer and Michael," John concluded. Bobby nodded but the tinman wasn't finished. "But if demons set up the ambush, why didn't they kill Dean?" he asked. "Lucifer would win by default if Michael didn't have a body to use."

"Why would they know Dean was the host?" Bobby asked in return. "To most of the world he's a tinman, a good tinman, but essentially a mechanic and a fighter. Someone who works in the physical world and no one special, really."

"It was safer," John explained. "Sam was already being talked about. Having two powerful airheads in the family would've drawn too much attention to us."

"So the shield you used to protect Sam could've protected Dean as well."

"Huh," John said considering it. "Winchester luck actually worked out for once."

Bobby grunted in return and started packing some of the papers away. They needed to take a comfort break soon and he didn't want to risk them being damaged. He was about to suggest John pull over at the next rest spot when the hunter spoke. "I've known for years that something was looking for Sam. There were signs all over the place." He turned his soft brown eyes on Bobby, except they weren't soft: they were hard with anger. "In all that time, I never once caught a hint that anyone—any _thing_ —was looking for Dean."

Bobby thought about it for a moment, thought about the implications. "You're wondering does Heaven even care?" he asked.

"Aren't you?"

Actually, Bobby was thinking if the angels cared they'd've stepped in long before now. 

  
Sam discovered there wasn't much difference between being an honored guest and being a prisoner. The biggest change was they flat out told him they weren't taking him to the Empire State Building or any other attraction. It was a lie Sam was more than willing to dispense with. Other than that, he now had a permanent escort.

He'd woken up in his bed, all of his aches gone, and Brady had been there waiting for him. Same with the Rubys except now they were his guard dogs instead of being his partners. Sam took great pleasure in calling them bitches.

"Aww," Ruby said with a sneer. "Did wittle Sammy get his feewings hurt?"

"Lay off him, Ruby," her partner said. "He didn't ask for this. He's allowed to be upset."

"Upset?" Sam repeated incredulously. "Your boss kidnapped me, did God knows what with my brother, and now you're holding me against my will."

The taller woman rolled her eyes at him. "Well _duh,_ Sherlock. That's what kidnapping means."

"Christ!" he spat, enjoying their instinctive flinch. "You're a bitch" and that ended another fruitless encounter with his former lovers-slash-bait. Baby shot him the occasional hurt-puppy look but he ignored her and concentrated on finding out the limits to his airbending.

He wasn't able to say the Latin exorcism. Two, three words in and his stomach twisted and his head exploded and he'd practically collapse from the pain firing through his bones. He couldn't say any of the other Judeo-Christian church rituals or prayers either. From funeral rites to St. Michael's prayer, the standard invocations were cut off from him so no point in making a devil's trap and trying to get rid of them all that way. He'd tried switching the prayers to another language. He'd been able to say them—mostly—but they'd had so little power he might as well try tickling a demon on the ribs.

He could still airbend though, still form his personal protections, so he chanted through them. When that got old he tried to send SOS messages out to Dean or his Dad, even Bobby and Andy, and then he ran through the list of all the genuine psychics he knew, sending out a call for help. He had no idea if it was doing any good but it made him feel better. For bonus points, it ticked off his demon watch dogs.

What had they done to Dean, he wondered even as he muttered _my jesteśmy bezpieczni—_ we are safe—and sent the energy out to his partner wherever he was. He glared at Brady. "Is he alive at least?" he demanded.

Brady rolled his eyes, and his head, and his shoulders at the one hundredth time Sam had asked the question. But he still didn't answer it. "Will you quit asking, already?" he said instead. "I don't know. I didn't know five minutes ago and I won't know five minutes from now."

"Sam." It was dark-eyed Baby, looking earnest. "Why aren't you happy?"

'Are you serious?' he wanted to ask her but he knew it would come out as a scream.

"Believe me, this is a _good_ thing," she said and proved she _was_ serious. "You'll have saved us. Saved us by setting him free." She lifted her hands and took a step forward like she wanted to comfort him. He'd kill her if she tried to touch him again. She must have realized it because she stopped moving. She didn't stop talking though. "He's gonna be grateful. He'll repay you in ways you can't even imagine."

"What kind of reward makes up for giving up my body, my life?" he snapped at her. "That's what being a vessel means, right? I become a meat suit for one of you guys."

"It's a great honor, Sam," she pleaded. "He's a great being."

"And where do I go once he's in control? I'm pretty sure his ego's going to be too big to let me stay."

She couldn't answer that so she changed the subject, offered him a different reward. "We'd be together."

Her blonde partner laughed first and spared him the need to do it himself. "I don't think that's a selling point right now, sweetie."

"Listen to your fuck buddy, Ruby Too. It's not going to happen." He glared at them all and wished he actually did have the powers legend gave to demon/human hybrids. He'd exterminate them all with a thought. They must have sensed his patience had ended because they all fell silent.

Sam went back to his spellwords. _Ja jestem bezpieczny_ : I am safe.

He was determined to make it true.

It was dark and quiet. His guard dogs were gone or sleeping and Sam knew how to be very, very quiet. He had on dark clothes, blues and greys because black screamed 'up to no good' as Dean had found out the time he tried to sneak into Ellen's spring wine storage. So his clothes were everyday and once out in the hall, he'd act like he had every right to be there, which he kind of did because he was Lucifer's 'perfect vessel'. Even if he got caught, which he wouldn't, but if he did, they couldn't do anything to him. They wouldn't risk damaging the package. From everything he'd read, he didn't imagine Lucifer would like inhabiting a vessel with a huge scar or one eye or any shit like that.

But he could do this. He'd figured out a way.

He looked at Baby, or rather Ruby Too, sleeping on his sofa. He'd almost ordered her to sleep on the floor since she was acting like a guard dog, but he figured his footsteps might make the surface vibrate even with the rug so she'd got the sofa. She'd seemed surprised he hadn't invited her into his bed. For one of Lilith's best agents she seemed a little short of brain cells. Her mouth was slightly open and she snuffled in her sleep. He didn't know why demons had to sleep but he was grateful.

He eased open the door and slipped out, smooth and easy just as he'd planned. The corridor was empty, no demons, like he'd thought.

He'd already made one—fake—attempt to escape, a mad rush for the door as they'd been expecting. Then after he'd woken up he'd ranted and shouted, then he'd begged and pleaded. Finally he'd very blatantly gone into a weepy sulk and fallen into an exhausted sleep. He hadn't been sure they'd fall for it but they had. Brady and Ruby had left and Ruby Too had fallen asleep and now was his chance.

He moved to the left, away from the public areas because if people were still going to be up that's where they'd be. He breathed carefully through his mouth—in for three, out for three—controlling the sound even if his heart was thundering and his skin was tingling.

Adrenaline. What a rush!

This morning—God! Had it only been this morning?—when he'd gone to see Lilith, he'd turned left at the first intersection. There'd been no windows and from what he knew of the layout, all the rooms that way were internal like his, so logically, if he turned _right_ at the intersection, he should come to the rooms on the outside wall. Outside walls had windows or at least rooms with windows. It wasn't a great plan but he needed to get out of here. Whatever scheme Lilith had in her evil little head, it was close to the last stage and he needed to be gone before that happened. He had no idea how he was going to get from New York to Bobby's panic room (which was the safest hideout he could think of) but he'd figure out a way.

First, he had to get out.

He listened to the building as he moved through the maze-like halls. The carpet muffled footsteps but there were plenty of lights to cast shadows of people moving. He ducked down beside a thin-legged table, at one point, to let some people—demons, he corrected himself—pass by on a cross-corridor.

He saw signs these were the private areas. People— _demons!_ they were fucking _demons_ —lived in these areas. Good, great. That's where he wanted to be. He kept his eyes on the carpet, looking for a doorway that was less worn than the rest. Hopefully the room behind the door would be vacant. And have a window.

He found one and tried the door but it was locked. Wires, pulled from the electrical outlet in the bathroom in the first couple hours of his imprisonment, served as makeshift lock-picks. They were a little soft but the lock was more for politeness than security.

"Hello, Sammy," Azazel said from behind him. "I'm sorry; you prefer Sam. I can understand that. Sammy's a chubby twelve-year-old's name."

Sam didn't wait for whatever else the bastard had to say. He got the door open and he slipped through it. He locked it knowing it was worthless. What wasn't worthless was the sigil he hastily spelled into the wood. " _Z_ _mocą boga, blokady i osłony_ ," he said, with the power of God, block and protect. Hopefully invoking the heavenly father would keep the demon out for a while.

He ran to the far wall where drapes fell gracefully to the floor, muttering spellwords of haste and healing, and prepared to pull the window open and jump to safety if that's what it took. He pulled the drapes aside… There was nothing: no patio doors, no windows, only a blank wall painted like all the rest.

"This is futile, Sam," Azazel said through the door. Sam ignored him. He went to the other side and pulled those curtains apart too.

Again, nothing.

"It's a sealed building," Azazel said. "Nobody in or out except by a couple carefully controlled entrances."

Sam could hear the thump-thud of someone trying to bash the door down and it gave him an idea: the building was old so it likely had _had_ windows at one point. Lilith and her gang had probably filled them in, which meant they'd be structurally weaker than the surrounding wall. Sam picked up a heavy brass lamp and yanked it out of the socket then carried it to the drape-covered wall.

"This _is_ a Den, after all. Have to protect the women-folk." The bastard's voice was full of amusement.

Sam could picture Azazel's toothy grin and it made him want to peel the guy's face off. Instead he ran his fingers over the plastered surface, looking for a dip or ripple—a slight unevenness that would announce where the window had been.

"Did you honestly believe we'd leave you alone? Huh, Sammy? That we didn't know you'd rabbit at the first opportunity?"

Sam started bashing the wall, easily punching through the plasterboard to the brick underneath. He could feel the zing of spellwork coming from the masonry. He threw some counterwords at the wall as he pounded on it and was rewarded when the zing turned into a tickle that sputtered and died.

So did his sigil on the door.

It crashed open, literally flying off its hinges from the blow. Tom and another demon charged into the room and Sam was forced to turn and face the threat.

"How could you think little Ruby Too was the only one watching you?"

Sam swung at the closest demon, the one he'd seen around the den but had never met. He was a big guy. Three hundred pounds of fat and muscle. The lamp hit him solidly in the side and the demon shrugged it off with barely a flinch.

"Twenty-two years we've been looking for you, Sammy. Twenty-two years of thinking your birth mother had managed to strangle you or you'd been eaten by dogs." Azazel looked at him in exaggerated hurt, "Did you _really_ think we'd be careless with you now?"

" _Stój!_ " Sam shouted at the one he'd hit and the demon froze in place. " _Powrót do piekła!_ " he ordered as he slapped his hand on the guy's head. Literally 'return to Hell'. The Dust poured out of him, gliding over Sam's body to pool on either side. It felt like gritty shampoo with a dose of used cooking oil and it smelled even worse

"Well, well, well, Sammy boy," Azazel chanted. Although his tone was his usual light mockery, there was a darker current to it. "That's impressive. Maybe you'll be everything Lilith said you'd be."

Sam fucking hoped not. He dodged a swing from another demon, a newly arrived one. He glanced up at the open door in time to see a couple more slip into the room.

Didn't matter, he decided; he'd get rid of them one at a time if that's what it took to get out of this hellhole. He moved his finger, creating the sigil as he spoke the spellwords. Then Tom tackled him from the side, driving him to the floor and planting a knee on his stomach that drove the air—and therefore the words—from his lungs.

Tom raised his fists and Sam rethought his assurance they wouldn't risk doing him permanent damage. _"_ _Chronić moje ciało_ _,_ " he said as he raised his arm over his face. Tom's fist came down and, _fuck_ , it hurt. Thanks to the spell, his arm wasn't broken but it was still going to have one hell of a bruise.

"Well that had to hurt," Azazel commented from the doorway.

" _Z mocą boga_ ," he prayed and noticed invoking God's power made Tom flinch. He used Tom's hesitation to get his good arm up and he grabbed the demon around the neck. Tom sneered at him but Sam didn't want to strangle the guy. He used the finger under Tom's ear to draw the sigil. " _Umrzyj!"_ he ground out: die. Tom froze. The look he gave Sam was shocked. Then he bucked and twitched, and the demon inside the body flashed and died.

"I have to say, I'm becoming more and more impressed by you, champ."

Tom's body started to topple forward. Sam pushed it to the side, trying to disengage, but it was literally a dead weight. Before he had a chance to free himself, there was another demon on top of him. A pretty female with dark hair and blue eyes and fingers like iron around his throat. He gurgled, desperately trying to pull in air.

"Don't kill him, sweetheart," Azazel ordered. "Lucifer will need his body fresh."

Suddenly Azazel was looming over him, looking down at him with his bile-yellow eyes. "I have to say, Sammy, I didn't think you had it in you. Raised in some do-gooder backwoods family." He smiled like Sam was his creation or something.

If he hadn't been occupied with trying to get the demon-bitch to loosen her grip on his throat, Sam would've ripped the guy to shreds with a word. Instead, he gasped for air. He tried to form spellwords in his mind. He could see the sigils, after all, and he could see the words but he couldn't make them come together in any way he could use as a weapon. He had to be able to speak!

"I can see the fire in your belly, boy, and I like it," Azazel said. "You hold on to that anger, Sammy, the boss is gonna need it."

Sam didn't see Azazel move but suddenly the girl on top of him was spurting blood from her neck and the yellow-eyed bastard was holding her so it was aimed right at Sam's face. It was getting into his mouth. It tasted so strong on his tongue… so good…

He swallowed without realizing he was doing it and nearly moaned at the sensation it gave him.

Shit, oh shit, oh shit!

He brought up a hand to try to protect his face from the flow but there was another demon in the room, and at some signal from Azazel, he came over and dragged Sam's hands down and away. Sam tried to turn his face to the side but it didn't help. The blood fell on his cheek and flowed into his mouth and it felt… wonderful.

Floating, flying, _alive_! His body sang. All his aches were gone, even his arm didn't twinge. He'd turned his head back to face the falling liquid, to try and catch as much of it as possible and gulp it down.

"That's right, champ," Azazel crooned "drink it all up. Better than mother's milk."

It was too much. He could feel his body changing. He wouldn't be human after this and part of him, flying high on the power, didn't care except that he wouldn't be able to go back after this—wouldn't be able to face Dean.

His heart cried even as his body flew.


	16. Call Me The Breeze

"John Winchester," said a soft voice. "I heard you were here."

John looked up into the face of Gordon Walker and Bobby thought this was exactly what they didn't need right now. He knew John's long habit of avoiding Gordon and crew, and now that he knew the Winchesters' whole story, he was even more in favor of the strategy. Gordon was bug-nuts to begin with but since hooking up with Kubrick and Greely his version of insane had taken on religious overtones.

Not the best companion for a family containing a cambion and a descendent of a nephilim.

However, avoidance wouldn't work since Gordon was here, standing by their table. He smiled down at them: dark eyes wide, teeth bright against dark skin. He looked confident and guilt-free.

"Gordon," John said neutrally. It very carefully recognized the man's presence without inviting him to sit down.

Didn't work.

Gordon smiled as if John had broken out in a song of welcome, and pulled out a chair. He sprawled in it in relaxed and easy camaraderie. "I heard one of Missouri's girls gave Dean an Invitation," Gordon said pleasantly, still smiling. It didn't reach his eyes. It never reached his eyes.

"Your sources are good," was John's mild response and Bobby could almost hear the voice in the other man's head telling him to be ' _politepolitepolite_ '. It should've been funny but it wasn't.

"Must be nice to have important friends," Gordon's tone was mild but there was an edge of something Bobby couldn't decipher. It wasn't quite jealousy. It wasn't quite offense. It wasn't quite a lot of things but whatever it wasn't, it was absolutely and completely, Not Happy.

Bobby could remember the first time Dean met Gordon Walker and how taken in he'd been by the smile. Easy to do, it was wide and so bright, and the hunter was so relaxed inside his own skin it was hard to believe anything bad could be in there. Dean hadn't believed it, not at first.

They'd been doing a clearance on a road break north of Sioux Falls which was why Bobby had been along. There'd been Dean and Sam in the Impala (a sixteenth birthday gift from his dad that had nearly made the boy bust a button with pride) and John and Jim in the big, black truck they'd bartered for (and Dean had dubbed Truckzilla due to its intimidating size). There'd been about eight teams in all, working for the Homies. They'd spent their days working and their nights camped in guarded circles on the asphalt, swapping stories the way hunters did. Dean and Gordon, about the same age, had gotten along pretty good for the first few days. Mostly, Bobby figured, because they'd been working on different sections of the road.

Both Jim and Bobby had tried to warn the young hunter away from Gordon but it hadn't worked. Dean's teenage hero worship had been in full bloom. Not even Sam's reservations had an effect. Until about four days in, when he and Sam had come round a copse of trees, completing their section of the sigil line, to find Gordon carefully slicing something that used to be human and young and still mostly was. The hunter had gagged it so it couldn't scream but it had been trying. There were lots of cuts, all shallow and already partially healed. Just looking at them, the Winchester boys could tell how long the other hunter had been torturing the creature.

Bobby may have had his difference of opinions with John Winchester and his mule-headed obsessiveness, but at least he'd taught the boys when something had to be killed, you killed it. You didn't, by God, _play_ with it.

Sam had told Bobby all about what had happened. How Gordon's voice had been so calm and reasonable. 'It's not like it's human,' he'd said, but the boys had known it had been once and it wasn't its fault it wasn't anymore. Then Gordon had smiled, Sam had said, the same guilt-free grin he'd used over the campfire and invited them to join in the fun. After he and Sam had killed it (and Sam had stopped Dean from pounding Gordon into the ground) Dean had apparently gone into the bushes and puked.

After that, their little group had avoided Gordon Walker, and because they were the Winchesters the dark-skinned hunter had found himself subtly, and not so subtly (Sam had punched him once), shunned for the rest of the job. To make it worse a taint had followed his name. Like Roy and Walt Debney, it was merely a whiff of something 'off' when people discussed him. Gordon Walker had never been Invited to any female's bed, never been asked to sire a kid, and he likely never would.

It was possible, Bobby thought, Gordon had never forgiven them for that, so Dean's Invitation would've rankled all the more. However, calling the other man on his snide remarks wouldn't accomplish anything so Bobby smiled blandly and responded placidly while John tried to loosen his grip on his fork.

"I'm sure it was only because Dean's so pretty. At least that's what the ladies tell me."

It was a safe thing to say because most everyone thought Dean was a vain little beauty queen anyway.

Gordon laughed his socially-acceptable yet hollow laugh. "Or maybe they want some of that Winchester DNA." The smile fell away from the black hunter's face like frost from a tea cup. "I keep hearing how special it is: healing, visions, moving things—fighting with his mind. Or maybe I'm thinking of Sammy."

"It's Sam," John said flatly. "Only family gets to call him Sammy."

Gordon's smile didn't slip. "Now, now, no need to get defensive. We heard you'd been having some troubles and I'm just here to offer you some help." Dark eyes slanted his way and it felt like Bobby was being invited to enjoy a joke no one else realized had been told.

" 'Preciate it," Bobby said blandly before taking a swallow of his beer.

"Always happy to help on a hunt."

True, Bobby thought, but only because the sick psycho would be able to cut stuff up and watch it bleed.

"You're heading for Chicago, right?" Both the older men made noncommittal noises. "We're going that way ourselves. We'll keep an eye out for Sammy— _Sam_ ," he corrected himself "for you."

Not by a flicker of an eyelash did either of the older hunters betray how much they disliked the idea of Gordon or Kubrick showing an interest in the younger Winchester. It was possible one of their little triumvirate had figured out Sam was a cambion. It was also possible that Gordon Walker, an experienced hunter well versed in biblical lore, had figured out a way to kill one. At least they would be going to Chicago and not Detroit.

"John. Bobby. Hey!"

The hunters turned towards the voice. Short, pale, unkempt and nervous, Chuck Shurley half-raised a hand in salute and nearly knocked over somebody's beer as he eased his way between the tables. "Hey guys," he repeated as he got closer. "Nice to see you."

He turned his perpetually-scared blue eyes toward their unwelcome guest. "Gordon Walker," he said in recognition. "Um, yeah."

"Chuck Shurley," Gordon said with a sneer. "Still think you're a prophet?"

"I dunno, Gordon. Still think you're sane?" It was a reckless thing for the smaller man to say.

Gordon shot up from his chair so fast it tipped over. His teeth were clenched and his eyes were cold and hard. Other chairs scraped across the floor as hunters prepared for a fight. Bobby exchanged a worried look with John. This could turn ugly because half the room didn't like Chuck and the other half would use any excuse to fight, and they'd be caught in the middle.

Then Donnie showed up as he usually did, just suddenly there behind the prophet, and the situation reversed.

"He is protected," Donnie announced in a voice dragged in from the sea. "You will not harm him."

Donnie was younger and slimmer than Gordon. Physically, he looked like he'd be easy to beat, but body type didn't explain how the man's sheer presence could overwhelm a whole room full of hunters. Donnie glared at the crowd indiscriminately. Most of the guys went back to their meals and very carefully avoided catching the eye of Chuck's escort. Gordon looked at his opponent and Bobby could see him think he should be able to take him. Donnie looked back and it was like he had all the powers of heaven at his fingertips. Not even a tremor.

"Are you in a hurry to die, Gordon Walker?" Donnie's voice carried no inflection, like he didn't care either way. He probably didn't. Not for the first time, Bobby thought Donnie was the wrong name for the man. He should have something _way_ more intimidating.

Gordon smiled but it half as bright as his usual. "Nah, not today. I got places to go. People to save. You know what I mean."

"Yeah, you should go do that," Chuck piped in.

Gordon sneered at him, not bothering to respond. Then he turned to John and Bobby. "Be seeing you," he said and touched his circled fingers to his forehead in a weird salute.

He was halfway to the door when Chuck stopped him. "Oh hey, Gordon?" The hunter turned to glare at him. "So, yeah… um. I don't think it's a good idea to go near Buffalo for a while."

Gordon's glare turned contemptuously dismissive.

"Just thought I should warn you," Chuck shrugged. "I don't care if you ignore me."

"I plan to."

Chuck jiggled on his feet and wrapped his coat tighter around him. He waited until the hunter was nearly out the door before yelling "Don't blame me if it comes back to bite you in the ass!" He turned back to Bobby and John and smiled nervously. "Or in the neck, as the case may be."

John raised his eyebrows asking for more info.

"Vampires," Chuck clarified "in Buffalo."

"Yeah," Bobby drawled "we got that." It was kind of snarky but he thought he'd earned it. His heart was still racing and he was just starting to get feeling back into toes.

"You know he's not going to listen," John pointed out.

"Yeah I know, but I warned Kubrick too. He'll keep him out of Buffalo for a while." Chuck bounced a little then dropped down in Gordon's vacated seat. Donnie took up a stance behind the prophet that Bobby'd only ever seen on TV: feet spread, hands clasped in front of him. All he needed was mirrored sunglasses and a suit to complete the look, but even without those, Donnie Finnerman was a very effective bodyguard.

Bobby really, _really_ didn't want to be around when Donnie started smiting people.

"Hopefully it's long enough for someone to clear out the vampires nest," John said.

"Oh yeah, sure," Chuck said with a quick nod. "We already told Rufus about them." He glanced up at Donnie who ignored him.

"I thought vampires were extinct," John said.

"Obviously not, Einstein." Bobby rolled his eyes, still snarky.

"Oh and you knew they were still around," John sneered at him, just as snarky.

Bobby sneered back. "One of the most rookie mistakes is to assume a type of monster is extinct just because you haven't run into them."

John snorted and opened his mouth to continue the argument but Chuck waved at them. "Not the point," he shouted. "Really. Not the point." He looked at them and huffed. "The point is you guys are going the wrong way." 

  
Dean was on the list for tonight's entertainment and Alistair had been poking at his anti-possession tattoo, poking as in 'cutting at it with knives and scalpels'. He'd had no luck damaging it, just like he hadn't been able to damage the one on Dean's arm, until he'd brought out a branding iron glowing white hot. Even the front row had been able to feel the heat.

If the boss-tard brought that again, Dean was going to say yes. He couldn't go through it again.

He just couldn't.

He covered his face with his right arm feeling the moisture and willing to finally admit that he was crying. If Sam had been free… if his Dad had been looking… surely they would have found him by now?

Burned right down to the bone with the added bonus of demon possession at the end of it to add the right touch of creepy horror to the event.

He couldn't. He wasn't strong enough.

"Dean."

Dean ignored the voice. Hearing voices meant he was still alive and he wasn't sure it was a good thing. Living was pain.

"Dean." It was a different voice. Deeper, rougher, softer yet more powerful.

He didn't want to hear that voice either. The owners of those voices demanded things of him, expected him to be something he wasn't, something he couldn't be. He could remember wanting to get out so he could rescue Sam. Then he'd scaled it back to just surviving until he was rescued. Now… now he was breathing. It was enough.

"Is he sick?" said the first voice. Dean refused to name him. "Burns get infected real easy."

"Only in his heart," said the second, also stubbornly unnamed. "He believes it's only a matter of time before he betrays himself and his ideals and becomes something he hates."

That about summed it up.

There were gentle fingers on his damaged shoulder, on the cuts on his back and down his legs. They were rubbing in lotion that tingled as it soothed. Words were said, power invoked, and the wounds were healed a little bit more. Dean wondered why the guy bothered because Alistair would only undo all of the healing Ca—the guy was doing.

"Is it just a matter of time?"

"No," the second voice sounded so certain.

"How can you say that, Cas?" Dean asked then nearly kicked himself. He didn't want an answer, didn't want to be involved with the living. If he was going to fail, then he couldn't let himself be attached to anyone. Not even himself.

"I can say it because rescue is at hand."

Dean snorted then froze as it sent spikes of pain into his skull and down his spine.

The dark-haired slave— _slave_ , not angel—ignored his small protest. "The garrison has mustered. The team will be here. I will heal you as best I can without revealing myself but you must eat so you have enough strength to assist in your rescue."

Dean let his arm fall down by his side so he could glare at the self-proclaimed 'angel'. "You are fucking insane."

"Perhaps," he said agreeably "but as a state of being, it has much to recommend it." And he smiled, barely a light twinkle in his eyes, but still an honest to god smile. Dean didn't know how the guy did it; surrounded by the senseless cruelty and pain that saturated this place and he could still have hope.

"It'll be okay, man," Tiny said. He touched Dean's shoulder in a gesture of support. "Castiel will get you out." Dean transferred his death glare to the big man. "He said nothing would happen to you and nothing did." Dean raised his eyebrow and Tiny had the grace to flush. "Well," he amended "nothing worse than usual. Nothing you couldn't handle."

Dean sneered at him and buried his head back in the flimsy pillow but in a way Tiny was right. Three weeks in this shit hole and Dean had kind of gotten used to being beaten and raped on stage. He'd even learned how to rate the different things they could whip him with and had ones he preferred because their damage was more visual than actual. Bamboo was the worst. Flexible and whip-like, it left little fibers embedded in his skin. Surprisingly, Tiny was an expert at removing them—or maybe it wasn't surprising considering how long he'd been here.

He laughed when he realized what he was thinking. It wasn't a happy laugh. "Do you realize how fucked up that is? That we've got acceptable degrees of torture?"

Tiny shrugged because to him it was a fact of life.

Dean sighed. "Okay, so last night Alistair didn't do anything as horrific as this," he waved at the still healing burn, ugly and overly-sensitive even with all of Castiel's airbending. "But it doesn't mean he won't do something similar tomorrow."

"You won't be here tomorrow," the angel assured him. He was so calm, so confident, and there was a happy anticipation on his face. Dean didn't get Castiel. He really didn't.

"You're freaking insane," he repeated and put his arm back over his eyes. He was going to go back to ignoring them both. It was the only sensible thing to do. 

  
Bobby looked over at his pilot in concern. John Winchester's face was pinched and closed and Bobby knew there was a part of the hunter, the part that was a Dad, telling him they were going the wrong way. Seventeen hours of driving equaled two and a half days on the road and there was no guarantee Chuck was right.

Except for the fact he'd always _been_ right.

Still, they were driving the wrong way. Further away from the boys instead of closer.

It was a hell of a way to conduct a rescue. 

  
He was floating. Floating and buzzing and the whole damn world was his. It made it hard to understand why he was crying. A steady stream of red-tinged tears they'd wipe away every so often. He felt the rough cloth running over his cheeks. Someone was walking beside him. More than one someone.

"That shouldn't be happening," said a girlish voice he recognized and didn't like, didn't trust. The cloth ran over his face. Doors shushed open.

"As we've never attempted this before, it's kind of hard to know what to expect." That was a guy's voice. Big teeth, wide smile. Sam didn't like him either.

He didn't like wide-mouthed smiles, Sam decided. He much preferred smiles from lush sculpted lips that tasted like ketchup and sunshine. "Dean."

"Unbelievable," said the man. "He is so flushed with demon's blood he could be making the whole place crash and burn, and all he's doing is moaning for his lover."

"Annoying but unimportant," the female said. "Is he going to be able to do it?" The doors went shush again and Sam realized he'd been in an elevator. Moving, moving, moving. But not in the Impala. The 'Pala was broken. They'd broken her.

He heard glass breaking. Lots of it. Sharp rain fell on them. "Shit!"

"Language, Brady," the female said tartly. "You didn't answer my question, 'Zazel."

"Will he be able to pop the skulls of sixty-six demons? I don't see why not." A cool finger pulled his eyelid up and Sam could see… blurred things. Evil yellow things looking back at him. He didn't like the evil yellow things and wanted them to go away.

"Ow!"

A girlish giggle. "He doesn't like you. Shocking."

Sam liked green things. Green like grass except sparkly and alive. Warm and strong and his. "Dean," he sighed.

"At least we know he's the conduit."

"You mean you weren't sure?" the man asked. "All this time, and you weren't sure?"

Fabric rustled. It sounded like the wind scraping over the clouds in the sky. He liked looking at the sky. He liked having warm metal against his bare skin while Dean…

"Your plan wasn't guaranteed either," she was sneering; Sam could hear her. "Bleeding into all those kids' mouths, not even sure if you'd picked the right one. And the whole tournament thing? That was just stupid." She chuckled. "Even then, if no one was willing to go to Hell to save your child then all of it would've been a waste."

"It ended with you dead—permanently," he said in the same tone "so it had some side benefits."

"At least with my plan, we _both_ have a chance of surviving."

The male was silent, unable to argue anymore and Sam knew the female had won because it's what Dean did when Sam won their arguments. Except sometimes, Dean would pull over the Impala and let Sam take his victory out on him. Dean looked so beautiful spread out over the Impala. Sam moaned his partner's name.

"Dean, Dean, Dean," mocked the female.

"Marcia, Marcia, Marcia," echoed the man. Sam knew he should recognize the joke, laugh with them. But he didn't like them. He wanted them to go away.

"Ow!"

"Ha! Now you know what it feels like."

He jiggled and jerked. He was flying, except he wasn't. It had been light and now it was getting dark. He was being loaded?

"You know, 'Zazel," said the female slowly. "It might be a good idea if we get that guy back from… where you stashed him. We could use him to keep Sam under control."

"I don't think so," the male answered.

"I think it's a wonderful idea," she said brightly. It was annoying.

"It's a lousy idea," the man said firmly. "One, the fewer ties to his old life the better. Two, do we really want Michael's vessel _right there_ when we open the door?"

"We don't know he's the vessel." Sam could hear the pout in her voice.

"Not one hundred percent, but why take the chance?"

The female sighed. "Then we should have Alistair kill him."

"And if he really is Michael's vessel, the angels would be forced to interfere and we don't want that. No," he concluded "Dean's better off where he is."

"Dean?" They knew where Dean was? "Dean?" he asked again. The couple said nothing. There was the sound of doors closing, distant footsteps, doors and a motor. An engine. Like in the Impala… Dean's Impala.

He wanted Dean. Dean would kill them for him.


	17. Angels at My Gate

Dean lay in his bunk. His back was good, or as good as it ever got in here, and his shoulder… well, it was still attached.

There wasn't much muscle left unharmed so he couldn't do a lot with it or with the rest of the limb. Alistair had spent a great deal of time in the last two days exploring the damage and showing off the effects. All the time, commenting in his drippy nasal voice while the vultures oohed at the close-ups. It was useless. Dead weight. Like him. He used his left hand for sigils during fights. Weapon in his right, sigils with his left, like Pastor Jim had taught him. Now he couldn't do that anymore which meant he wasn't going to be much of a hunter, and if he wasn't a hunter, what was he?

He couldn't even be much of a tinman since that also required both hands.

He was repeating his mantra hoping, just this once, the power in the words would work on him and to hell with blowing his cover. Tiny had slathered on the antibiotic ass-slick and Castiel had spoken over it so he knew what it should feel like as it healed and he wasn't feeling it. He chanted louder, more forcefully, determined to change what he knew into what he wanted.

"That isn't wise," Castiel said. He was standing between the bunks, casually ready for whatever might approach. "You have managed to pass for an average human being for three weeks. It's not a good idea to, um, blow your cover now."

"Thanks for the advice, Huggy Bear." Even as wrung out and finished as he was, Dean couldn't resist teasing the guy about the slang. It sounded funny coming from him.

A sudden spike of pain shot through his gut and Dean curled over on his side. If he hadn't already been lying down he'd've fallen over.

"Dean?" Cas said, moving closer. "What is it?"

"I dunno, man. Maybe I should've eaten something." But it hadn't been hunger. It had been like someone hooked his guts and pulled. All of a sudden, Dean had sympathy for the fish he'd caught over the years. His assurances didn't stop Castiel from examining him, blue eyes dark and intent. "What?" he asked as the inspection went on.

"I'm not sure," Castiel said slowly, reluctantly. "No matter," he finally said, "You should stand up. It's nearly time."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean closed his eyes instead and continued his chanting. However he did lower his voice—it wasn't helping anyway.

There was a commotion at the door, the kind which meant some guards were in the barracks either trolling for random meat or pulling out someone specific. It was a bit early for customers to be walking around above them, but it wasn't unknown because perversions didn't follow a clock. The result was predictable. The slaves—Dean still refused to call them entertainers—rippled like waves on the sea. Some of them moved away, wanting to remain unnoticed, safe; some of them moved closer, hoping to be chosen, to be picked out of the crowd.

"Dean," Castiel began.

"If they want me they know where to find me," he snapped back. He still fought but lately it was more Gandhi-esque than Bruce Lee.

The angel sighed quietly before bending down to touch Tiny. He was careful with the big man who'd been chosen for a cage match yesterday. He'd taken down six guys before the MC had started the two-on-one's. Jake had been in the first pairing, and he'd beaten the crap out of Dean's friend and protector. He'd come back barely conscious. Tiny was refusing to drink the tonic now that he knew what was in it, so there wasn't much of him not damaged. Dean had dragged himself out of his bed and gone to him, massaging him and chanting. He didn't think it had helped much, but at least the guy wasn't dead. He'd do some more in a bit, when Cas went away.

"Clif," Cas said. "It's time." Tiny shook himself, and holding one arm carefully over his ribs, angled himself slowly and carefully upright. "Will you change your mind and come with us?"

Dean snorted. They ignored him.

"Castiel, it means a lot that you've asked me, really, but I've been in here too long. I wouldn't know what to do out there."

"You aren't too old to learn."

"I like it here just fine." The big man held out his hand. "It's been an honor to know you," he said and Dean rolled his eyes. Like they were actually getting out…

Castiel wrapped Tiny's hand in his and squeezed gently. "Likewise, Clif." He placed two fingers on Tiny's forehead and concentrated for a moment. Dean watched as cuts and scrapes and bruises on his friend's face faded away. Tiny let go of his damaged ribs and stood straighter, easier. Dean blinked.

Castiel looked at Jerry next, his eyebrows raised in question. Jerry gave him a small smile over the top of his crossword book. "I'm good."

"If you are sure," Castiel asked, his tone a serious 'last chance' kind of thing.

Jerry laughed, but not happily. "I'm like Clif; I've been here so long I wouldn't know what to do in the outside world."

"Very well," Castiel acquiesced. "It was an honor to meet you." Again he held out his hand, and again, there was the quick touch to the forehead. At least Dean assumed that was what happened since he couldn't actually see through the mattress above him, but Cas leaned in with his arm up and Jerry gave this little 'oh' of surprise like Tiny had.

Then Tuco arrived at their bunks with Blondie at his back, and Dean had no more time to speculate. "Dean and… Jimmy," the demon said.

_Jimmy?_

Castiel turned to face the two guards. "We are ready."

"No we're not." Dean placed his good hand over his face, prepared to ignore them all.

"Time to get up, hunter man," Tuco sneered. "You gotta customer."

"I gotta serious injury, is what I got," Dean replied. "And an attitude problem."

"Dean," Castiel interrupted. "This isn't the time."

Dean glared at the guy. Angel or not, he wasn't the boss of Dean. The only guy who got to boss Dean around without getting lip wasn't here. Wasn't here, was never going to get here… Sam was dead, maybe, and Dad wasn't coming. It was a truth Dean had been working to accept. Nobody knew where he was. There was no rescue from this.

But he could still give the bad guys attitude every chance he could. And he could mutiny when a guy he known for barely two weeks ordered him around.

It was Tiny who broke the standoff. He reached down and grabbed Dean under his good arm and _pulled_ until it was get off the bed or have his arm dislocated.

"Alright, alright, alright. _Jeez_ -us." Blondie and Tuco flinched, which Dean enjoyed. Cas gave him a sad look, which Dean pointedly ignored, and then his blue-eyed bunkmate reached up and touched _his_ forehead and he felt the tingle of a spell run over his skin, rippling right below the surface. The demons sniffed the air; literally _sniffed_ like dogs on the scent of a bone.

Dean opened his mouth but Castiel gave him a little shake of his head and glanced at the guards. He was right, Dean had to concede. This was a bad time to discuss Cas' sudden airbending abilities.

The self-proclaimed angel dude turned to the demons. "We are ready now," he said calmly.

"Arrogant meat," Tuco said with a sneer. "We got a customer waiting."

"Maybe she'll take care of your cockiness," Blondie quipped and Tuco laughed. The stocky demon waved them out into the aisle. Castiel stepped out in his usual unconcerned style. Dean wavered, willing to obey but not sure why. He didn't generally obey these guys, but for some reason, today he was okay with it. And that was wrong.

From behind, Tiny gave him a push and he was moving.

The two demons flanked them as they walked through the barracks. He saw Jake and his minions scowling at them and he wished he'd had a chance to do some decent damage to the shithead, but he guessed it didn't matter anymore.

Dean shifted his attention to Tuco who was leading and Dean wondered, in a vague uncaring way that wasn't natural, if Alistair's demon minions had real names. Did they use the same ones they'd had before they became demons, or ones they'd gained as demons in Hell? Or did they steal their hosts' names the way they'd stolen their bodies? Of course, if they used the one attached to the poor bastard whose body they stole, they'd have to change identities every time they possessed someone new and that could get confusing.

What if a male demon stole a female body? Wouldn't it be awkward to suddenly call yourself Jane if you'd been a Bob for the last century or so? Not to mention all the other things that would be totally wrong about that scenario.

Thinking about all the possible ramifications of gender-swapping demons, Dean was sorry his brain had brought it up.

He shuffled along, keeping his mind blank until they passed the second door into the areas of the club that were secluded but still public. 'Viewing Rooms' they were called. It was here where the slaves waited while the customers made their final decision on whether to rent them or not. There was a plain couch, an overhead light, and a wall made of one-way glass. Dean hated it. He wasn't meat. Or he hadn't been. He could remember being a hunter but it was like there was a fog between his past and his now. A fog that had kept him following the demons instead of resisting the way he usually did. A fog that had him standing placidly in the middle of the room instead of tucking himself away behind the couch.

Castiel had done something to him. The little two-timing _bitch_! "How—"

Castiel glared at him and gave his little head shake. His glance was towards the one-way glass this time but Dean got it. They weren't safe yet.

Safe. Of course they weren't safe, and there was nothing Cas could do to change that, Dean reminded himself.

And yet…

Cas had healed Tiny with a touch. Cas always made the assholes in the barracks back down without ever throwing a punch. Cas had appeared and nobody, not even the guards, knew how he'd got there. Cas had never been taken on stage or out for a private show before. A fact Dean was only now realizing the significance of.

None of what Cas had done should have happened, but it had.

Dean put his gaze down on the floor, hugged his useless left-arm to his chest, and tried not to hope.

Alistair walked in, nose first of course, and smiling his malevolent little smirk. "Well Dean, it's your lucky day." Doubt it, asshole, Dean thought. "And yours…" The head demon looked at Castiel and then he looked again. "Who are you?"

"I'm Jimmy." Cas lied with impressive nonchalance.

"We haven't… met before, have we?"

"No… sir," Cas hastened to add the honorific. "But I'm new."

Dean nearly choked in shock. Two weeks wasn't new. How the hell had Cas managed to dodge his 'interview' in Alistair's little treatment room? Alistair _always_ interrogated new arrivals. They didn't get downstairs until they'd been strapped onto his table for at least an hour so the son of a bitch could discover the things you _really_ hated. He swallowed his emotions down, locked them tight, so he wouldn't give him and Cas away.

"Really," Alistair drawled disbelievingly. "All our new finds are supposed to be interviewed by me as quickly as possible and no one's mentioned you to me." Castiel kept his mouth shut and his eyes mostly down. He looked nervous and unsure—exactly like any new arrival would look when singled out by the boss and wondering if they'd done something wrong.

Alistair paced closer. "Jimmy, is it?" Castiel nodded.

"Jimmy," the boss-tard said, drawing out the name. "It doesn't suit you." He moved even closer, circling both of them slowly but keeping his eyes on Castiel. "I can't see you as a 'Jimmy'. No, something Russian, or perhaps something even more exotic, but not a 'Jimmy'."

Someone at the door cleared his throat.

"I'll have to give it some thought." Alistair grimaced, "But later. For now, you two have an appointment with a very nice young woman who liked your eyes. Thought they were expressive." Alistair stared at Castiel. Castiel looked back with his customary mild gaze.

"I'm not sure I agree, but then," he smiled "I'm not the one with the money… yet."

He waved them towards the door and Dean turned to see who had interrupted the boss-tard's monologue.

It was a heavy-set black man wearing a cheap suit and a dour expression. His eyes were hard and his lips were thinned with anger, as if he didn't want to be here. He looked like the kind of guy who'd take out his bad moods on the people around him. Dean's heart started beating double-time. He didn't want to go to that guy. He knew Alistair's staff supposedly vetted all the customers to weed out the serial killers and other serious psychos—mostly because they usually couldn't pay—but Dean was pretty sure they'd screwed up on this guy's background check.

Castiel moved easily toward the door, unafraid as usual beneath his nervous-virgin veneer.

"Three hours, Jimmy Blue-Eyes," Alistair cooed as they passed. "Three hours until we meet again."

Cas didn't nod, didn't glance, didn't do anything to acknowledge the threat; he merely walked toward the door.

Dean fell in behind 'Jimmy' and barely managed not to glare at the man's back. He was tense. He was angry. He had so many freaking questions that couldn't be asked, not here, not now, maybe not ever, but _shit!_ Alistair hadn't 'interviewed' Castiel—whose real name was apparently Jimmy? What else had Cas lied about?

And why the Hell was he trusting the guy anyway? 

  
Ellen swore like a lumberjack when she realized she couldn't go with them. All the heads in the Roadhouse, male and female, swiveled their way. Nobody bothered to even pretend to be doing anything but listening in to what wasn't their business. Bobby, John, Bill and Ash stood with their backs literally to the door, united behind their duty to protect the women.

"I am going with you," the Den Mother demanded. "After everything those boys have done for us? How can you even think I'd stay here?"

Bobby had no doubt the woman would be an asset in a fight. Hell, she could probably wipe the floor with all of them with her combination of training and attitude. It was one of the reasons she was so valuable.

"I _think it_ because everyone here relies on you," her husband said. "You are the reason this place exists."

"It can exist without me for a week."

Jo was standing beside her mother, arms crossed, hip shot, and chin thrust out. "There's no reason why we can't go with you," she said aggressively, and Bobby knew it was done. He could've kissed her except she hadn't given him permission and Ellen would probably break his nose for it

Instead, Ellen rounded on her daughter, "Joanna Beth! You are not getting yourself killed on some dusty back road outside Nowhere, Wyoming."

"And you are?" Jo stared at her mother in stunned anger. Ellen stared back. "Oh like _that's_ reasonable."

"I am your mother," Ellen said with regal disdain. "I don't have to be reasonable."

"Neither one of you are coming," John said and Bobby had to admire a man who so casually put himself in the middle of a hornet's nest.

Jo's angry gaze swiveled to the Winchester patriarch. "You can't keep me here," she said ferociously. Bobby noticed Ellen closing her mouth with a snap, and figured her daughter had said exactly what she was going to. He coughed into his fist because he wasn't laughing. This wasn't a laughing matter after all.

John didn't even try to hide his laugh but he didn't need to, since his was more of a threatening chuckle. "Don't bet on it, sweetheart."

"I'd like to come," Andy raised his hand tentatively.

Ansem scowled. "Don't be ridiculous."

"What's ridiculous about wanting to help a friend," Andy demanded and his brother's scowl deepened.

"Exactly!" Jo supported the airhead. There were nods of agreement from around the room.

"Nobody's coming with me," John shouted. "This isn't a war and it's not some romantic adventure. This is personal."

"Of course it's a war," one of the hunters in the back yelled, and there were more nods from around the room. And some disagreement as well.

Bobby recognized some of the nay-sayers as people John had ticked off over the years or men who wouldn't believe it was the Apocalypse until the Devil himself stepped in front of them. The tension was ratcheting up, murmurs growing into conversations into arguments. Bobby saw some of the other hunters in the bar shifting in their chairs getting ready to take part in the upcoming fight. Bobby could tell some of the guys just wanted the excuse to break the furniture. As John would say, this was turning into a fuster-cluck.

"Bobby!" Pamela's voice was obliviously happy and hearing it made the tension back down. The blind psychic was standing in front of the bar, towel over her shoulder, smiling wide and bright, and straight at him.

"Pamela!" he said in return. She put her arms out so he walked into them. He even allowed himself to be picked up and squeezed like a four-year old. "You're a sight for sore eyes." He knew she'd know he was thanking her for coming out and breaking the stand-off. He also knew she'd give him a hard time about it.

"Ha, ha, Singer," she said and dropped him. He landed easily.

"Don't I get a proper Winchester greeting?" he asked hopefully.

"Are you a proper Winchester?" she snapped back "I don't think so." She turned her white eyes on John. Her smile turned teasing. "Now _you_ , you smell like a Winchester."

John smiled shyly back. "I'll take that as a compliment, ma'am."

Pamela chuckled low and dirty. She stepped closer to the hunter and leaned in. "Take it any way you want to, handsome. Just don't tell Jessie or she'll want to join in." The Winchester patriarch blushed—frigging _blushed_. Bobby was so going to remind him of the next time he had a chance.

The psychic turned away from the hunter to face Ellen. In her hand was a slip of paper she held out to the Den Mother unerringly.

Watching her move, Bobby was once again struck by how impossible it was she was blind. He knew Sam had worked with her to create spellwords to increase her spatial awareness, but the way she knew exactly where everyone was? It was downright unnatural.

"Scott asked me to give you this." It was a telegraph slip. Scott must've been manning the machine today, Bobby realized. The airhead was skittish and had always preferred machines to people. "It's from Chuck."

A heavy silence fell. Not everyone believed he was a prophet, but most didn't bother denying he was hooked into the best intel. Ellen hesitated before whipping the slip of paper from Pamela. She scanned the short message, Jo reading over her shoulder.

"I don't understand," she said blankly.

She handed the telegram to her husband who read it and frowned as he read. He passed it to Ash who was practically vibrating he was so anxious. The tech-geek stared at it. "What the fuck?" he said astonished. "All it says is; 'I know he's weird but trust him anyway'. What does that mean?"

The door behind the four men bounced open, and as one they turned to face any incoming threat. It didn't look like a threat. It looked like a rather short, sharp-featured guy, late twenties-early thirties, with sandy hair and sandy eyes that twinkled with good humor. Still, it didn't hurt to be cautious. Guns and knives didn't waver.

"Hellooo, sorry I'm late but I had to stock up." The newcomer held up a bag of chocolate covered peanuts. "Good candy's sometimes hard to come by out here." The room was quiet as they stared at the guy, assessing, deciding.

Finally John stepped forward and growled. "Who are you?"

The guy popped a candy in his mouth and sucked on it as he looked between all the main players. "I'm Gabriel. Didn't you get Chuck's message?" he asked.

"He's an angel," Pamela said and the bar grew noisy once again.

"Bullshit!" Ash said but he turned to examine the new guy real close, even reaching out a hand—probably to see if the guy was radiating a 'heavenly aura'.

"There are no such things as angels," Bill said. Heads nodded and tongues wagged.

"You believe demons exist," Bobby carefully didn't look at John when he made the point to their friends.

Bill laughed. "If angels were real, don't you think some hunter somewhere would have seen one at some point?"

"Yeah," Gabriel said impatiently, "you just have."

"Whoever heard of an angel that eats M&M's." That was Ansem, always willing to believe the worst… of anything.

"Why wouldn't us angels like candy?" Gabriel protested. "Chocolate is awesome."

"I believe him," John said.

Ansem sneered. "Of course _you_ would, but I'm not gonna believe this guy is a freaking Angel of the Lord just because he says so."

There was more head bobbing as the room agreed with the airhead. Bobby didn't put any stock in the agreement though. For whatever reason, people always thought Ansem made sense while he was in the room with them, only to scratch their heads in disbelief once he was gone. It was probably because they were afraid he'd kill them if they didn't agree.

Jo was frowning. She was leaning as far toward the newcomer as her mother would allow. "He doesn't have wings," she said. "I thought angels were supposed to have wings?"

"I have a feather boa I like to use," Gabriel said playfully, waggling his eyebrows at her. Immediately the room was full of growly men protecting the female. The guy rolled his eyes at them. "Alright, al- _right_ ," he said. "Sheesh, you're a touchy bunch." He took a breath and held it a moment.

"Angel," Jo whispered as the shadow of his wings extended the width of the room.

Gabriel sucked on his treat. "That's one description.

"Holy shit," Ash said.

Gabriel tilted his head. "That's a better one." Then he grinned.


	18. Blitzgrieg Bop

Floating. Rocking. Steady hum-hum-humming that was familiar but not.

"This would be easier if you'd let me zap us there."

Male voice. Nasty man. Zap the nasty man.

"Ow! Shit."

Female giggles. Know her too. Zap her too.

He thought the same thought as he'd thought against the male but it felt muzzy and weak against the female.

nnn

"Oh that's much better. I knew the new ritual would help."

"Great." The male didn't sound happy. He shouldn't be happy. Zap. "Dammit! Next time add my blood to the mix too."

"That could throw the whole potion off, ruin everything." She sounded smug. She always sounded smug. He didn't like that. She coughed but he knew she could still speak. He hadn't stopped her.

"You know what else would ruin everything? If he zaps me and I run us into a tree. _That_ would ruin everything." Zap. Zap. " _Fuck me!"_

"Language!"

"It fucking hurt, Lilith. I was not kidding about hitting something."

"Don't be silly. We're on an abandoned back road in the middle of the plains so there's nothing to run into." The male growled. "Alright, alright. I'll figure out how to change the potion so you have some immunity too. That make you happy?"

"Oh, ecstatic. Really."

Nooo! He didn't want them happy. He hated them.

"Ow, ow."

" _Shit_. Tell me again why we don't just jump to Wyoming."

"One, the longer he's on the drip, the easier the final ritual will be. And two, do want to be around when he comes to in a completely strange environment? His instincts would probably tell him to attack anyone he doesn't know."

"He's already attacking us."

They'd attacked him first. Bad people. Nasty people. Zap, zap.

"That wasn't an attack." Her voice was ragged. She wasn't happy. "That was him playing with us."

"Yeah, well… I wish he'd find a new game."

Make them unhappy. Make them pay. Bad people. Not Dean. "Dean."

"Oh, great." The male's voice was fading. "Now we get thirty minutes of pornographic moaning.

"Quit complaining. At least it'll keep him from electrocuting you." 

  
The room Castiel and Dean ended up in was white and gold with old-fashioned paintings on the walls and old fashioned furniture on the floor. The accent color was green: carpet, upholstery, bed linens, all had some tone of green. He'd heard of this room called, unimaginatively, the Green Room. Unlike the other service units Dean had been in, there were no toys hanging on the walls, no frames or mounts for them to be tied to. There _was_ a big bed with iron rings set into the posts and spotlights mounted on top, but that's not where the customer was waiting for them.

She was standing in front of one of the paintings—some dude was skewering a snake or something. Dean didn't look at it closely. Instead he looked at the woman who was renting him and Cas for the afternoon. She was a tiny red-head, slim and pale with blue eyes and a full mouth. Three weeks ago Dean would've been happy to see someone as pretty as her waiting for him in one of these rooms. Now, however, he knew a pretty face often hid a very ugly core.

The thick-set black man followed them into the room then walked past, taking up position slightly behind the young woman. Bodyguard, Dean thought, probably chief head breaker too. The guy looked at Dean and sneered, as if the hunter were a bug he wanted to scrape off his shoe. Dean ignored him: he wasn't the one in charge here.

There was another guy, thin, ratty and unkempt, with the sharpest eyes Dean had ever seen, and Dean was sure there wasn't much that happened this guy wouldn't catch. He too stood slightly behind the woman and the hunter wondered if he was the guy she wanted them to be fucked by. He didn't ask though. He'd learned to wait until the house guards had left before poking the sleeping tiger. Alistair's demons took the reputation of the house seriously… plus they plain enjoyed roughing up The Badlands Hunter.

The door had barely snicked shut before she was talking. "The window is polarized," she said waving a hand at the large expanse of glass. "Nobody can see in. We've scrambled both the audio circuits and the camera so no one is listening in or watching. We're completely private here."

Great, Dean thought. They _were_ serial killers and him and Cas were about to become hamburger. He braced himself for the attack. It didn't come. Instead the pale rat-faced one tossed Castiel a long silver stick and Cas twirled it in his hand as if testing the weight. It was a weapon, Dean realized, some kind of sword. A customer had just armed the entertainment.

"Castiel," the woman said. "You've done well, I suppose. He's alive," she looked at Dean's salve-covered shoulder "although damaged."

To Dean's surprise, Cas stood even straighter. "It would've been unwise to completely heal the wound. Alistair is no fool. He would have recognized Heaven's power."

"Well, Michael will take care of it I'm sure," she said, dismissing both his care and his explanation. Dean decided he didn't like the girl. What did she know of living under something like Alistair?

She turned her blue eyes on him. "So, you're Dean Winchester," she said. " _The_ Dean Winchester who's going to save the world."

"Yeah, not so much," Dean scoffed in return. "But my name _is_ Dean. What's yours?" Beside him Castiel shifted uncomfortably on his feet, as if embarrassed by Dean's behavior and somehow responsible for it.

She gave a small chuckle. "You're right. That was rude. I'm Zachariah, Castiel's boss."

"Zachariah, really." Dean's brain had stuttered in surprise but it didn't stop his mouth from working. "I would've figured you for an Anne or a Julie. Zach seems… kinda butch." Obviously these guys were lying and this was some kind of fucking game. Dean made sure to turn himself so he had the wall at his back.

Zachariah didn't seem offended: surprised, but not upset. She looked down at her body, dressed simply but richly in designer jeans and velvet jacket. "This?" she said. "This is just a vessel."

"You're possessing some poor girl?" As if it was somehow less offensive than having a guy's name.

"It was necessary to get in here—to you." Zachariah explained, "Even in this… place, women get treated with more deference than a man would."

Dean wasn't convinced. It sounded exactly like a form of demon-hood and it must have showed on his face because Zachariah rolled her eyes. "She was very devout, I assure you. She actually prayed for this. You think I wanted to put on one of these smelly things?" She waved her hands over her slender form.

The tall thin-faced one to Dean's right coughed.

"Ah, yes," she said "Balthazar reminded me we actually have very little time. What has Castiel told you of your mission?"

"My mission?" Dean laughed. "I'm a fucking prisoner in a sadistic demon's whore-house. What kind of mission can I do? Should I change my name to Spartacus?"

Zachariah was frowning. She looked at Castiel who was standing hang-dog beside him. "He doesn't believe," Cas said.

"In what?"

"In anything," Cas explained. "In us, in God, in himself. He believes in his family and in protecting the innocent."

" _He_ is standing right here." Dean would've waved or something else obnoxious but his arm was starting to radiate acid-like pain in time with his pulse. It was a bit distracting.

"But he is still a good man," Castiel continued. "A righteous man. He will do what's needed."

Zachariah looked disappointed and rather disgusted, but Dean refused to apologize. "Well, I'm sure we can work with that." He smiled at Dean, and it was the kind of smile older hunters gave to newbies just learning the job; half encouraging, half 'oh my god what kind of ass did I get saddled with?' Dean didn't appreciate having it directed at him.

The dark-skinned escort growled. "Why are we wasting time with these mud monkeys? We know where the Adversary is going to be, and we know his vessel—"

"Uriel!" Zachariah's tone was sharp and the dark guy—Uriel—shut up but his short comment was enough to give Dean a bad feeling about it all. If these guys were angels then they were hiding things from him. It was like the Homies all over again.

"So you don't actually need me," Dean said, testing the waters.

Zachariah—Dean's mind still stuttered over the name—smiled at him. "Oh no, you're very necessary," she said. "You're going to stop Lucifer."

It took Dean a moment to drag his chin up off the floor.

" _I'm_ going to stop Lucifer." He didn't bother framing it as a question because it was stupid and silly and obviously some kind of game the customer was playing on them.

Except Castiel was part of it.

"Yes, Dean," Zachariah's tone suggested Dean had learning disabilities. "You're going to stop him. You're the only one that can."

Dean looked at them all, looked at their eyes, their mouths, their shoulders and hands, anything that would give away the game. There was nothing. "You're serious."

"Very," the slim blond one said. He had a vague accent and a very soft voice. It made the amusement slightly condescending.

"How am I supposed to stop Lucifer," Dean finally asked even though the whole idea was preposterous. "I'm only a human."

Zachariah raised a finger. "Ah, that's where you're wrong," she said. Her eyes were light with excitement. "A few generations ago—"

"Seven," Castiel corrected. "It was exactly seven generations." Zachariah glared at him and Cas averted his eyes, almost shrinking into himself.

" _Seven_ generations ago, your ancestor was visited by a special being—"

"The archangel Michael, actually," the slim one broke in. "Our brother. Makes you our great-great nephew or something."

"Balthazar," she barked, glaring at the larger man.

The guy—Balthazar—smiled easily. "I was only maintaining the rhythm." Aside from Dean, he was the only one who appreciated his wit. Balthazar sighed. "I miss Gabe," he muttered and Dean was sure he was the only one who heard the comment.

Zachariah turned back to the hunter, and her face wasn't quite so relaxed and friendly. "Seven generations ago, the Archangel Michael, our brother, visited your great-great-whatever grandmother, and asked her and her husband to host his child. They said 'yes' and a son was born. For seven generations, from oldest son to oldest son, a destiny has been handed down. That destiny now falls to _you_." A flick of her hand indicated Dean. It also said they expected him to fall in line with all their 'grand destiny' crap.

"So I'm a result of angel nookie a hundred and fifty years ago?" Dean asked. He had so many things flying around his mind right now he needed to stall until he could ask something pertinent. Annoying Zachariah was a bonus.

"Crude," the angel replied tightly "but essentially correct."

"And somehow that makes me The One."

Zachariah gave an impatient nod.

"Can I have a ring?" Dean asked with a sneer. "One with weird droopy lettering etched…"

In his corner, Uriel growled and began to move toward the hunter. Balthazar raised his hand and the big man shrugged to an unhappy stop. Dean flicked him a glance. "No ring? That's disappointing." The heavy-set angel stared at Dean as if waiting for the signal that would allow him to squeeze the human into paste. Dean deliberately turned his back. "What exactly am I supposed to do to save the world?"

Zachariah smiled. "All in good time." Dean stared at her and she gazed smugly back, knowing she held all the cards.

Before Dean could call her on it, the door burst open and Tuco and Blondie rushed in along with a half-dozen more of the house's guards.

"Don't harm a hair on that boy's head." It was Alistair, following his minions into the green room. "I want to do it."

Uriel was the first to move, lumbering into action, easily switching targets to something he was allowed to hit. "How dare you come in this room, you pussing sore."

"Calling _me_ names, you sanctimonious, fanatical prick?" Alistair's normal mocking expression changed into one of pure hatred. "You're protecting a nephilim and that makes _you_ a Damned hypocrite. You might as well be working on our side."

Uriel growled, his anger growing—were angels allowed to feel anger?—and then he charged, not caring that Tuco stood between him and the boss-tard. Tuco, for his part, was smiling like this was crazy fun. It was a look the demon's face had worn often on stage. When Uriel tried to sweep the guard out of the way, Tuco grabbed the angel's arm and twisted it, turning the big man from his target and flinging him halfway across the room in the same smooth move.

"I recognize you now, 'Jimmy'," Alistair nodded at Castiel. "I would've identified you by your smell even under that pretty meat, if I'd interviewed you. I don't know how you managed to sneak in here but I shall have to have a talk with the staff—give them lessons on proper security, don't you think?"

Castiel said nothing. Just planted himself between the incoming demons and Dean.

Uriel and Tuco were wrestling, close-quarters combat, move and counter-move. It sounded like bricks hitting as each tried to find an advantage. Then another one of the guards—Gary or Barry, Dean had never been properly introduced—joined the fight and Uriel went into the wall making it shake.

Alistair turned his attention to the pretty red-head. "It was a good idea to take out my closed-circuit TV. Too bad you didn't take out the backup systems."

"If you were spying, then you know who we are and what we will do. Leave now, or we will lay you to waste."

Dean would've been impressed by the amount of lethal threat the woman could put into her voice except there were about four guards starting to circle her, and another six aiming for him and Cas. Blondie had decided to make them his targets and the demon walked around them like a cat pretending not to be stalking the mouse.

"Turn around and walk away now." Cas made the statement softly but firmly, and without a hint of irony considering he was half-naked.

"Sure," Blondie said "Just give us Dean and we'll make sure he gets taken care of good and proper."

And Cas was still half-naked but now he was moving—a fluid shifting of weight. The blade was like a part of him and the mild mannered slave didn't seem so cuddly anymore. He was a hunter, a warrior, beyond anything Dean had ever seen.

He opened his mouth, hand moving, to create a spellword in Enochian to back up his fellow hunter when a lifetime's caution stopped him. These people weren't his family. He didn't know them, couldn't trust him. If he revealed his talent, what would it reveal about Sam? They were outnumbered, he told himself, and possibly outgunned. These were full-blown demons they were taking on, not random Bunnies or streams, but he couldn't make himself do it.

Balthazar whistled at him. "Dean!" Dean looked up to see another one of the odd blades flying through the air right at him.

He grabbed it with his good hand and it felt… right. Just holding it made his awareness of his injury fade.

"Use it well," Balthazar quipped before turning to face one of the enemy. The guy… angel… guy dodged a punch then the follow-up. before putting his silver-blade though the demon's side. The demon made a surprised sound as it flashed inside the body it had taken over. It collapsed in a heap when Balthazar withdrew his blade. There was only a thin wisp of smoke from the wound to let the world know what the flesh had once housed.

From the other side of the room a purple-red light was growing. Dean glanced over to that side to see Uriel pressing his palm to Tuco's forehead. Dean could see the force the guy—the _angel_ —was using but he couldn't sense the spellwords. Whatever the dude was doing, it worked. Tuco's demon flashed and died, leaving an empty shell.

"Do you really think you're going to get the boy out of here?" Alistair asked. He was doing something with his hands, down low hoping no one would see it—a spell.

Whatever Zach and his pals had planned for Dean, the hunter knew it would be better than what Alistair would do if he got his hands on him again, so even though he couldn't bring himself to use his own personal spell language, he could still use Latin. Nobody questioned a hunter using Latin. He threw the spell at the man who'd been dominating his nightmares. " _Noli movere."_

Alistair halted.

Then he cleared his throat, movements loud and mocking. "That tickled," he said staring right at Dean. "My, my, you _are_ a surprise, Dean. We're going to have such fun once we're back together."

"Dean's leaving with us," Zachariah announced as casually as if she were asking for a glass of water. She moved her fingers and the demons at the door were flung out; out through the door, out of the bodies they occupied. Another flick and the door slammed shut and disappeared.

"I don't think so," Alistair countered. "I've got this place on lock-down."

Zachariah's eyes went blurry and distant for a moment before she pursed her lips in distaste. "Thick, but ultimately simple to overcome," she said "rather like you."

Zachariah threw her hand out in front of her. There was no spellword, no noise at all, but Dean felt the percussive wave move through the room. Zachariah's hair blew back and her jacket rippled. Demon's and angels alike had to fight to keep their footing. Even Alistair was forced back a step.

Another demon tried to use the moment to slip through Cas' guard but Dean had the blade out and the sigils formed. He used Latin to freeze the guard in place. The demon stopped and Cas calmly stepped in and skewered the guy through the spine. The demon flashed and died, and Dean turned to the next one in line. It was odd to realize that he and Cas moved as smoothly together as him and Sam ever did. Odd, and unsettling.

There was a yell from Uriel's side of the room as the big man put a hole in another one of Alistair's guards and the demon flashed and died, but there were two more circling around him and he was hampered by having to keep himself between them and Zachariah and Dean. Blondie slipped past the line the two angels had created and charged towards Dean. Castiel was suddenly there, an immovable, stubborn wall. Every shift was followed, every move was countered, until the slight man trapped the demon's arm under his. Cas placed his hand on Blondie's forehead and chanted _'Affa amiran'_ and Blondie's demon flashed and died.

Whatever Zachariah did to the door it seemed to be working, because despite the howls and the bangs, the rest of Alistair's crew has remained on the other side. It actually looked like they might win. Then Alistair joined the fight. 

  
Every eye in the place was fixed on Gabriel, but there wasn't one hint of fear or nervousness. In fact, if Bobby had to classify what he saw on the guy's face, it would be excitement. The guy—the _angel_ —was loving the attention.

"Why are you here?" The question was low and dangerous, as if John had scraped his voice from some sea bottom. Bobby knew how he felt.

The angel raised his hands. "Here's the thing. I know what this is all about."

"A big show-down between Heaven and Hell, the Apocalypse, right?" Ellen said. She was standing with her hands on her hips. Angel or no, the Den Mother wasn't going to put up with any BS.

"Close."

"Michael and Lucifer duking it out to decide the fate of the world," Ash added.

Gabriel nodded. "That's even closer."

"Godzilla vs. Mothra," Jeb Dexter quipped and some of the guys in the bar chuckled.

"I thought it was already decided," Andy asked. He was standing wrapped around himself as he often did, chewing nervously at his cuticle. "What with the Storm and everything."

"The Storm was more like a pre-game show, or maybe training." There were murmurs at the angel's careless dismissal. "Think of this as a grudge match between two of the most powerful angels Heaven's ever seen."

"Grudge match?" Bobby asked.

"The Apocalypse? All of it?" Gabriel said, "It's about two competitive asshole brothers who always have to be right. I mean, it was always natter-natter-natter, until it stopped being teasing and became personal and that's when they started to fight— _really_ fight. Hard enough to threaten everything, and I mean _everything_ , so Dad split them up. Now, however, Dad's back is turned and they want to finish the fight."

"So a grudge match," Bobby repeated.

"Yup. Think Ali versus Foreman but on a grander scale."

"So what's your role in all this?" John asked. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't want something."

"Very good," Gabriel grinned, "Of course I want something."

"You want us to help Michael win?" Andy said. "He's from Heaven, right? So he's gotta be the good guy."

Gabriel made a face. "It's not that simple," he responded slowly, "because I want you all to help me make sure both sides lose." There was a disbelieving snort from within the bar. The angel turned his head and looked right at Jeb Dexter. "You have something to say?"

The skinny car salesman stood up. "Uh, yeah, we're just humans and you're expecting us to take on Lucifer and Michael? Do we look like idiots?" There was a grumbling of agreement and a few snorts from people who thought that's exactly what Jeb looked like. Bobby managed to turn his into a discreet cough.

"Actually, douche, some of you look like Hunters, and whether you're an Airhead, a Tinman or a Walker, you have the skills I need to keep the demons away from the ring. Rumble in the Jungle!" he announced loudly. "Or you know, the graveyard. Same dif."

There were murmurs in the bar, some in support, some arguing against. Gabriel ignored them in order to lay a large map out on one of the tables.

"We're in" was shouted loud and clear from the back of the bar. Damien pushed his way through the crowd, Barnes following loyally behind. "Whatever you need."

"Fucking ass-kissers." Jeb again.

"Just because you're a talentless douche—" Damien started and the car salesman jumped up, ready to fight.

"Hold it down!" Ellen's voice cut through it all, demanding obedience and getting it. "The angel's not finished and I want to hear what he has to say. Anyone who's not interested and isn't going to be coming along should walk on out that door." She stared at the crowd. "Either that or ask _pertinent_ questions and not try to stir up trouble like a badger in a hole."

Gabriel swept her a bow. "Thank you, Lady. Each side went to great lengths to hide the site of the final showdown from dissenters like me, but I am resourceful. I have… _skillz_." He paused and Bobby thought he was maybe waiting for applause. It didn't happen.

"Chuck told us where it was going down," the hunter pointed out. "It can't have been that hidden."

The angel rolled his eyes. "Chuck only knows what upper management tells him. They weren't telling him the real story so I had to."

John narrowed his eyes. "You told Chuck. You told him to tell us."

"You were going the wrong _way_. I had to do _something_." Gabriel mocked.

"I could be in Detroit right now," John yelled "rescuing my _son_."

"You could be in Detroit," the angel repeated with a sneer "getting yourself killed and letting Lilith get away with _your_ son."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Bobby put his hand on his friend's arm. John was getting awfully close to 'too close' to the angel. He was used to John's protective streak and all the blind irrationality that came with it. The angel was not. John broke free of Bobby's restraint. He was practically pulsating with tension.

Gabriel didn't back down. In fact he moved closer, staring up at John in fearless challenge. "It _means_ Sam Winchester isn't _in_ Detroit anymore. Lilith is already moving him into position."

"That's e _nough!_ " Ellen was really pissed now. She stepped between the two, pushing them apart. "This isn't a contest."

Bobby put his hand out again and pulled John back but it was probably training on the proper behavior expected by a male when in the presence of a female that had him backing off. Gabriel had maybe had some of the same training because he stepped away too. He glared at the hunter a moment before tossing a couple candies into his mouth and chewing furiously.

Ellen drew in a sharp breath. "From what we've heard, those boys are running out of time—and us with them," she said. "So, what's the plan?"

Bobby saw when the angel decided to let it go. A sharp smiled crossed his lips and he once again waved a bow at the bar owner. "Good point," he conceded. He spread his map out on the table. It was a map of the Midwest as it was now. The spider web of roads from pre-1983 didn't exist on its surface. Instead there was a fragile tracery of lines linking one small community to the next.

"The fight is going to take place here." He pointed at a spot in what used to be southern Wyoming. "In this area there are six churches, all mid-19th century, all of them built by Samuel Colt—"

Beside him, John jumped in surprise. "The demon-killing gun maker Samuel Colt?" the tinman asked.

"That's the one. He was actually a lot of fun," the angel mused. "Of course, the laughing gas helped."

Ellen crossed her arms, tapped her foot and _glared_ , and proved to the world even the forces of Heaven quailed before her when Gabriel twitched. "Right, plan. Sorry." He took a pen out of his pocket and put five X's in a circle around a central point. "These are the churches," he said, "and these are the railway lines he built to connect them." He drew lines between the X's, five of them, until a pentacle was revealed.

Bobby stepped up to the map, tracing the lines with his finger. "Tell me that's not what I think it is."

"As long as you're not thinking it's a devil's trap, then sure, I can do that." Gabriel shrugged.

"A one hundred square mile devil's trap," Bobby laughed. "I'll be jiggered."

Ash was also leaning over the map, "Fucking brilliant. Dust can't cross iron lines."

Ellen was shaking her head. "I've never heard of anything that massive."

"Neither have I," Bobby agreed. He was about to say more because, seriously, how had the USGS never mapped _that_ out? But John got his question in first.

"After all these years none of the lines are broken? I mean, it still works?"

"Oh yeah. It's still clean and Dust-free inside the main area." He indicated the pentagon made by the criss-crossing railroad tracks.

"Why did Colt bother?" Ansem asked, forcing his way through the crowd to stand next to the map. "What's so important about some old church in the middle of nowhere?"

"Well," Gabriel said. "it's one of the places where the barriers between existences are thin."

"What's that mean exactly? Which 'existences' are we talking about." John demanded.

"Yeah," Ansem agreed. "That could be anything from the Twilight Zone to an entrance to Under the Hill."

Gabriel bobbed his head a little, acting embarrassed. "Well, actually. There's an entrance to Hell in the church's cemetery. Lilith's cooked up some ritual that'll allow her to pull Lucifer out of Hell through the gate."

"Uh-uh, no way." Ash shook his head. "The way this was laid out? It's so powerful you'd need an A-bomb to destroy it. No way could a full-blooded demon get across."

Gabriel lifted his finger, happy to explain. "But Lilith's not a full-blooded demon."

The hunters looked at each other and shook their heads but it was Ellen who said it first. "Bull shit. She was Adam's first wife; the first demon Lucifer ever made."

"Uh-huh," the angel agreed. "But she never died. Lucifer took her downstairs before God could kill her physical body. So, yes, she's completely evil—twisted and corrupt—but she's not a full-blooded demon. Neither is Azazel, the other one of Lucifer's minions who grabbed Sam. Azazel is actually a fallen angel—kind of a cousin but, like, twice removed or something. Anyway" he waved it off "he's not a full-blooded demon either."

"So they're going to take Sam to the cemetery and do what?"

"Bad things?" Gabriel said with a smile. Nobody laughed. "I don't know exactly," he admitted. "I don't know if this is an ancient ritual or a spell they hammered out together. What I do know for sure is that Sam is the sacrifice. Isn't that enough?"

  
"You should leave, now," Zachariah said in her soft voice. "You have no idea who you're dealing with."

Alistair chuckled contemptuously, "I think I'll take my chances, feather-brain." He moved toward the small female but Balthazar was suddenly in the way. The angel swung his long blade but Alistair knocked it aside with a flick of his hand. He trapped the angel's arm under his and slapped his hand to the man's forehead. He started to chant.

" _Potestas inferni me confirma_."

Dean had never heard the spellwords before but they scraped under his skin, as uncomfortable as ill-fitting underwear. In front of him, Castiel flinched, a tiny jerk, but it was enough for Angel Eyes to slip by him and come after Dean.

" _Potestas inferni me confirma_."

Blue light was bulging from Balthazar's mouth, streaming from his eyes. It hurt Dean to be in the same room but he didn't have time to think. Angel Eyes was grinning, Dean's arm was throbbing, and Castiel was going to be too late to save him.

Oh _hell_ no, Dean thought. No way was he _ever_ going back under Alistair's control. Pure Winchester stubbornness had him holding his ground. Fear and determination had him throwing away all the caution his father and step-father and Sam had drilled into him. He held nothing back when he yelled his spellword to freeze. " _Zacar-am!"_

Instantly all the demons but Alistair stopped, even the one who was launching himself at Uriel. Caught in mid-leap and unbalanced, the demon fell over, arms outstretched and eyes wide in shock. Uriel smiled, bent down, and with casual ease, slid his blade into the demon's body and killed it. Castiel whirled and did the same thing to Angel Eyes.

Alistair, although not frozen, had jerked. It was enough to release Balthazar who fell to his knees coughing and rubbing his chest as if it hurt. "Very impressive, Winchester," the demon oozed. "You grow more and more fascinating all the time."

"Stay away from me, you sick fuck," Dean felt an ice stream of fear running through his bones. He'd felt too much in the past… half-hour? Hour? He didn't know. He'd lost all sense of time. He was cold. He hurt. He felt sick and shivery and weak, but he was still not going back with that demon. " _Caosgi-ils zacam."_ He pushed the spellwords at Alistair and the guy shuddered, a full body shiver that brought Dean's hopes up.

Then the demon shook himself. "You'll have to do better than that, Dean," he purred.

Castiel took up position in front of him, twirling his blade so it glittered in the lights.

Zachariah flung out her hand and Alistair slid across the floor, falling to his knees but remaining upright. "You forgot about me, Alistair," she said. "There's still me."

Uriel thrust his hand—his whole frigging hand—through one of the guards. It made the demon's death flicker with odd shadows. The walls boomed hollow.

"The wards are down," Balthazar yelled. "Castiel, _go_!" He was standing up, blade shining and his expression was so fierce Dean was surprised the remaining demons didn't spontaneously combust.

Whatever might have happened next Dean didn't get to see it.

Castiel was suddenly standing beside him, his free hand grabbing him high on his hurt arm. "Jesus, Cas!" Dean shouted. He tried to flinch his arm out from under Cas' hand but the angel—he actually _was_ an angel, Dean couldn't deny it any longer—the angel merely tightened his grip. It caused a starburst of fiery pain to explode through him, and it was one sensation too many. He could feel himself losing control of his limbs, his breathing sputtered and stalled, and the world turned white and featureless.

He thought, with absolute clarity, that this was him dying. He followed that thought with the knowledge that even dying was better than living as Alistair's toy but he was kinda pissed he wouldn't see Sam one last time.

Except his consciousness didn't fade. There was no light. He was aware of his body—in all its pain-wracked, sweaty, glory—and he was aware of himself thinking. He was aware that he was aware and he was pretty sure it meant he passed some kind of test.

_I think therefore I am._

And he was.


	19. Hush

Dean pulled in a breath as big and deep as Lake Superior. He _heard_ himself it was so raspy, as if it had been years since he'd last breathed.

"Dean," Cas' voice was calm but thin. "Dean, we're safe."

He didn't feel safe. He felt stretched and pummeled… but he wasn't in pain. Huh.

He rolled over onto his back, feeling the brittle grass, or whatever he was lying on, prick his bare skin. Right hand came up to left shoulder barely touching at first and only at the edges of where he knew the burn to be.

"It's gone," Cas said. "I healed it."

Dean finally opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Cas or rather his outline since he had his back to the sun. He could still see the guy's eyes, bright blue against his shadowed face. "Healed?"

"Indeed. As I no longer had to be concerned with Alistair discerning our true natures."

Dean shut his eyes again, letting his head fall back to the ground. "Sheesh. You're a bigger geek than Sam." His right hand inched its way over the hole where his deltoid used to be but there was no hole, no dip, no pain, only an odd bumpiness. He reopened his eyes and craned his head to look.

"I-I apologize," Cas dropped his gaze. "The healing required was more extreme than I had believed it would be. There will be scarring."

"Is that," he twisted his neck until it was painful, "is that a _handprint_?"

"Yes." Castiel sounded almost horrified at having marked up Dean's body but Dean laughed weakly and let himself relax again. The sun was shining down, warm despite the season. There was a breeze, mild and clean, bringing with it the smell of growing things and open spaces.

"No worries, man." He breathed deep, feeling the absence of forty or so other men like a pressure lifted from his chest. "No worries at all." He wanted to lie here a moment or maybe a full minute and enjoy this. He still had to find Sam, reclaim the Impala, and then he'd go after the shits who'd attacked them. "Will Zach and those guys be able to take Alistair?"

"Yes." Cas stopped. Dean opened one eye to stare at him, ask for more details. "The opening we created in Alistair's ward will allow more of my brothers and sisters to join the battle. They will clear out the demon's nest."

"Tiny?"

"Will be spared," Cas reassured him. "He has a good heart."

The gentle quiet surrounded them. Insects chirruped and there was a bird or two making plans to head even further south. Dean knew he should wonder where he was, but honestly, just by being _not there_ it was all good.

"Why me?" Dean asked. "Why are you so certain I'm the guy you're looking for?"

"Why are you so certain you're not?" Cas responded.

Dean snorted. It was a stupid answer. Castiel sighed. "You are chosen, Dean. _You_ are the only one who can stop it."

Dean laughed. "Stop what? How? I mean, if you angels are having problems, what the hell do you expect me to do?"

"You will stop it."

"You're fucking dreaming," Dean responded. He closed his eyes again, closed the angel out, and lay in the pale fall sun and enjoyed it.

"This is worth saving, isn't it?" Castiel asked him quietly. Dean opened an eye to look at him. "The people you know, your friends, your family. Strangers you have yet to meet. They deserve to be saved."

Dean frowned. "Why is my job to save everyone?" Even as Cas opened his mouth, Dean knew what the angel would say. "Because I'm Chosen."

Castiel blinked as the words seemed to echo back to him. "It's a great honor," he ventured.

Dean laughed. "Yeah, unless I fuck it up then it's all my fault. Judas Iscariot would have nothing on me."

"That won't happen," Castiel said with one of his small smiles.

Dean finally sat up, staring at the angel who looked back at him steadily. "I don't understand you, Cas," he said. "How can you have such blind faith in me? You hardly know me."

Castiel's smile grew. "I know enough. I know the only way you can fail is if you don't try. And I know you _will_ try because that is your nature." Dean laughed, in disbelief, in question, in fearful hope. "You will say yes to the plan, Dean, and the world will be saved."

Dean looked at the angel who looked back at him, faith practically glowing from his eyes. His stomach was churning and his breath was too quick and too shallow. If he lifted a hand he knew it would be shaking because seriously, what the fuck? He didn't deserve that kind of faith and yet he had it and it was making him feel completely off balance and kind of sick.

He swallowed down bile, pushed his fear to the side. "You," he said firmly "need serious psychological help, man." Castiel's brows flicked down, not quite frowning but close. "And obviously I do too," Dean continued "because I'm going to go along with this craziness."

Castiel's face smoothed out in satisfaction and Dean felt it was like the sun had reached out a hand to stroke his cheek in approval. That little almost smile pulled at the angel's lips, and for the first time since he and Sam had gotten together, he wondered what it would be like to kiss another man, to do more than kiss.

Yeah, so not going to happen.

"First we need some clothes and then I gotta eat," Dean said as he rose to his feet. "I don't know about you, but I'd kill for a decent hamburger."

Castiel's brows snapped down. "You… would kill?"

"Sure would," Dean agreed happily. "I'd slaughter the cow myself if it would get me a good hamburger. Wouldn't everyone?"

Cas blinked at him in befuddlement. "Is it not possible to obtain only a part of the cow, pre-slaughtered?"

Dean didn't even try to stop the hysterical laughter that shook him and left him gasping. Like the sunshine, it was something he hadn't felt in far too long. "Come on, Cas," he said, putting his hand on the guy's shoulder. "Let's start walking. I'll find us some 'pre-slaughtered' cow."

Castiel blinked at him. "Why would we walk?" Dean looked around at the empty landscape, hands out, showing it to the angel, making his point without words.

Castiel's lips quirked. "I told you, I am an Angel of the Lord and angel's don't _walk_."

He lifted two fingers to Dean's forehead and the world returned to white. 

  
As much as he wanted to call bullshit on the guy, angel… whatever, Bobby didn't want to reveal what he knew. He didn't want a bunch of hunters to know Sam was supposed to be Lucifer's new body or one of them might decide to blow Sam's head off with the idea that even the Devil might have trouble animating a body with no head. Then the angel gave him another look and Bobby realized Gabriel knew what Sam's role was supposed to be but he was worried about the same thing.

"What's Dean's part in all this," the hunter asked to deflect any more interest in Sam.

"He's going to play Michael's part," Gabriel answered promptly. "My sibs are rescuing him now, then they're going to brainwash him into thinking that letting Michael use him as his suit is a good idea."

John snorted and a series of knowing chuckles ran through the group. "Good luck with that."

"Yeah?" Gabriel asked happily.

"Mule doesn't begin to describe Dean's level of stubbornness," Bobby agreed.

"Excellent," the angel said rubbing his hands. "That means this has a better than even chance of working then."

"Which brings us back to the plan," Ash said.

"Of which he's said buckus," Ansem pointed out with a sneer.

"Patience, grasshopper," Gabriel said loftily. "I know one of the first things Lilith has planned for Sam is for him to break the railroad ties."

"Aren't railroads made with iron?" Ellen asked. "And iron repels magic."

"Usually, my Lady," Gabriel responded with his half-mocking courtesy. "But they'll have him all hopped up on go juice so his airbending abilities will be… off the charts. Once the lines are broken the area will be filled with demons and Bunnies and any other ghoulie that wants to join in. Sam will fight and kill them."

John nodded his head in approval. "Good."

Gabriel shook his head. "Not so good. Unholy blood on Holy ground," he explained. "It tends to, um… cancel or…or _reverse_ whatever protections are in place. Once he's killed a specific number the gate will open and the way will be clear for Lilith to do whatever it is that'll pull Lucy out of his cage."

"We stop Sam from killing the demons," John summarized flatly "by preventing him from breaking the rail lines."

Gabriel laughed, outright laughed, in surprised disbelief. "You make it sound _so_ easy," he mocked, still laughing. "Nothing about this is going to be easy."

Since he knew that already, Bobby didn't even roll his eyes. "What do you need from us?" Gabriel looked at him in surprise and this time Bobby _did_ roll his eyes. "You're not expecting us to take on Lilith and the angels—"

"A bit above our pay grade," Andy quipped nervously. Ansem dragged his brother's hand away from his mouth. Bobby was always surprised the guy had any fingers left the way he chewed at them.

"—so what is it you need us to do?"

"Well, actually, Sam _will_ need familiar faces, reminders of what's important, blah blah blah. All that sentimental greeting card stuff might actually help him stabilize. The rest of us need to be walking the tracks, reinforcing them, and if they break, fighting back the Dust and keeping all the monsters out of the center."

"You want us to die," Ansem stated flatly, at the same time Andy said "We'll do it."

"Andy," his brother protested "it's a death mission."

"And if we don't help, Lilith might get Lucifer out of Hell: death all round," Andy argued back.

"You don't actually believe that."

Andy shifted nervously, blushing and looking away. "Actually," he cleared his throat. "Actually I do. I have for some time."

"Aw _shit,_ " his twin spat in disgust. "I don't believe you."

Andy grabbed at his brother as he turned away. "You've seen it. You must have seen it," he pressed. "I mean, visions aren't my thing, but I know what I saw." Ansem shook his head. "Ava saw it too."

At the mention of the female airhead, Ansem shook off his brother's hand. "She's a nutcase," he snapped. "As bad as Scott."

"Doesn't mean she isn't right," Andy said stubbornly. "Doesn't mean doing _this_ isn't right."

Bobby looked around at the bar. Aside from Demian and Barnes whispering in the back, all the focus was on the two brothers arguing in the room's center. He could hear the whispered betting going on as everyone wondered if this argument would finally rip the two apart. Long past time, as far as he was concerned. Ansem was a bad seed, always had been. As far as he was concerned, Andy would be far better without him.

"I'm not going to let you. I'm not going to let you ruin our future." This time it was Ansem who grabbed his brothers and shook him. "You have no idea.

Bobby's spine tingled; his 'Spidey sense' kicking in. He looked at John, and saw the hunter's fierce concentration focused on the brothers in front of him. He looked at Ellen, and she looked as nervous as Bobby was feeling. This wasn't going to go well.

"What do you me—"

Ansem broke in, excited and happy, and completely oblivious to their audience. "I've wanted to tell you for so long, bro. But he didn't let me. He said I had to wait until the time was—"

Andy held up his hand. "Who said?"

"The man with the yellow eyes."

Bobby placed his hand over John's arm, knowing he would want to pounce on the young airhead. Holding him back from doing anything stupid because Andy was the only one Ansem respected, the only one he cared about. He'd kill anyone else who came close right now.

"Yellow eyes?" Andy asked. His voice was weak and he was chewing at his lips nervously. He almost looked at John but managed to stop before he dragged his unstable twin's attention to the tinman.

"He came to me in a dream," Ansem smiled in excitement. "He said I was—that we were—special. He told me he's got big plans for me, for us. Wait 'till you see what's in store, Andy, for both of us! But that won't happen if these mindless sheep fuck it up." He squeezed Andy's shoulders and Bobby could see the airhead grimacing in pain. Hell, he could practically hear the bones grinding together. "I'll stop them, don't worry. I'll do it for us."

"I don't think so," Gabriel said and the room jolted as it came out of its trance. The angel raised two fingers to Ansem's head. " _Affa amiran,"_ he said and Dust poured from the airhead, wisping out from his skin, streaming out from his eyes, his nose. The angel raised an outstretched hand. " _Ugegi ils zir_ ," he said and closed his hand in a tight fist.

Bobby knew the angel was killing the demon not just banishing it, from the way it flashed and flared, like sparks flying up from a fire. He nearly put his hand out to check for heat before giving himself a shake. It was a stupid impulse and had no place here, where one of their own—weird and squirrelly as he was—was being revealed as a demon. Damn it, he _liked_ Andy and learning his brother was a demon was going to play merry hell with the boy's self-esteem, which wasn't high to start with.

When the last of the Dust had drained from the boy and been destroyed by the angel, Ansem crashed to the ground in a heavy boneless heap that didn't bode well for him being other than a corpse. It was Barnes who knelt beside the body and checked for a pulse. Bobby didn't need to see his head droop in disappointment to know the verdict. Barnes looked up at Andy, "I'm sorry."

Andy stood there, staring down at his brother, pale and shaking. Ellen moved quickly to wrap the airhead in her arms and give him one of her rough hugs that were more comforting than the tough old gal knew.

"Yeah, well," he stopped, swallowed, and rubbed his thumb over his bottom lip.

"If it makes you feel any better, he was probably dead for months, maybe even years, while that thing took him over," Gabriel said.

"Yeah, no, that really doesn't help," Andy said in a small voice. "Ansem was a demon…" Barnes stood up and put a comforting hand on his back, and where Barnes was there was Damien, offering his support as well. "I had an evil twin."

Bill was arranging to have the body moved even as Pamela muttered the spellwords to put Ansem into stasis until they could charge up the sigil stones they used for cremations.

John stepped closer to the diminutive airhead. "Andy," he said, his growly voice as soft as it ever got. "We'd love to have you, you know that, but if you need some time…"

Andy was already shaking his head. "No, no. This actually makes it more important." He looked up and his face was still shocky but there was determination there too. "I didn't know." He looked around the bar. "None of us knew. He didn't look any different, didn't act any different."

"You mean he was always an asshole?" That was Jeb, hardly bothering to keep his voice down. Jo smacked him hard enough to knock him half off his chair.

Luckily Andy was too wrapped up in his thought to hear. "Any of us could have that stuff inside us. There's no way to tell."

"Actually," Gabriel said "there is." He held up both hands. " _Zamran!_ " he intoned importantly. Bobby looked around the room, catching the eyes of the people close to him. Bill, Ash, John, Ellen… nothing changed. Other people had done the same thing and the room gave a collective sigh of relief.

"Okay," Gabriel clapped his hands, "One last demonstration of my PHENOMENAL COSMIC POWERS!"

Ash leaned in to Bobby. "Is he quoting a Disney cartoon?" Bobby shrugged.

" _Brints-t-busd gea_." There was a ripple, like a wave, and it ran through the crowd. Bobby felt it on his skin, in his body, and it felt like a scrub brush had gone through him to make him clean. He felt lighter, steadier… less tired than he had even a moment ago. He wasn't the only one who gasped.

In the center of the room, Gabriel smirked and bowed. "Thank yew. Thank yew verra much. I'm here 'til Thursday. Now, can we get back to saving the world?" 

  
Dean wobbled. That was one of the weirdest things he'd ever experienced. He was glad he'd been out of it for the first trip because he felt seriously misplaced. He hadn't even felt like a body, just some kind of… waveform. As he took stock of his various body parts and their corresponding aches he also realized he never wanted to do that again. Everything felt… more.

And he still couldn't see.

"Dean! My goodness, boy. You look jus' _aw_ ful."

Dean knew that voice. He blinked to clear the white out of his eyes. "Missouri?"

"Well who else?" she said. She was holding on to his arm—his other arm since Cas had one—and dragging him through the back entrance to her Den.

Dean looked at the angel. "You brought us to Missouri's?"

Cas shrugged without moving his shoulders. "You feel safe here." Which was true but it was still odd the angel knew about her. And that she knew about _them_ … Maybe she was having visions now too.

The woman chuckled. "It wasn't precognition, Dean. Your angel told me you were comin'."

Dean looked at Castiel.

"It seemed like a good idea to give her some warning."

"You called her? Like on a phone?"

"It was more like he plugged me into the angel radio network," she chuckled. "An' a more confusin' bunch of noise I ain't ever heard. I could live with never hearin' it again," she commented pointedly, looking across Dean to the angel. "Now, I've got some stew waitin' but first I think you need to clean up some. No offense, but you're smellin' like sweat and pain, and maybe the water'll help clear the fog in your mind."

"Okay," Dean said because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"You could say thank you."

"It is exceedingly kind of you to take us in," Castiel said for him.

Dean barely listened to them. His mind had snagged on something else. They were at Missouri's. "How's Carmen?" he asked. It had been… two months? Two months was nearly out of the most dangerous time, wasn't it?

"She's fine. Both of them are healthy and everythin' seems normal."

Dean let out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. He was going to be a Dad. The idea still filled him with wonder. What would the kid be like? What traits would the kid have he'd recognize?

Oh shit…

He froze.

"Dean?" Cas asked in concern.

"The child will be fine," Missouri said in reassurance. "Whatever traits it might pick up from you, we'll pass off as comin' from its mother. Can explain all sorts of powers on her having been possessed for a while."

"It can unlock previously buried abilities," Castiel confirmed.

Dean was suddenly aware he was leaning on Cas _and_ Missouri, like some kind of wimpy Southern Belle. He wasn't sick and he wasn't weak. "Um, thanks for the assist," he said as he wiggled free of their supporting arms. "But I can take it from here."

Missouri peered at him. "You won't be passin' out in my bathtub? Not that I wouldn't mind the show but you're a little big for me to be liftin' you."

Dean could feel his blush. "I'll be fine. I can smell the stew and that'll give me something to remain awake for… give me purpose in life." He smiled even though the joke was feeble and kinda stupid.

"Your purpose is to avert the Apocalypse," Castiel corrected with a frown.

Dean stared at him. "Don't worry, Cas. It's on my honey-do list. _After_ the shower and eating."

"Ah. Yes. Of course. I understand." It was obvious the angel didn't understand but he was going to go along with it. He wasn't a Warrior of God anymore. He was back to being the slightly spacey dude from the slave barracks who was innocent and adorable.

"I've put clean clothes out for you.

Dean walked down the hall to the door Missouri had pointed him at. The adrenaline was definitely wearing off because, swear to God, his legs felt like ten pounds of bricks. He kept one hand on the wall in case. In the bathroom he shucked the thin cotton pants with an internal 'fuck you' to Alistair, but once under the water he banished all thoughts of where he'd been and let the past drain away with the dirty water. The water pressure at Missouri's was easily twice what had been available to the slaves in the barracks, and the soap smelled mild and clean. Dean knew Missouri bought her soap from a group of women in town. None of them were fertile but they hadn't wanted to sell their bodies to support themselves, so they made soap and candles and little things that gave off pretty scents.

He would've put up with something a whole lot more girlie as long as it was different from the industrial spice that had permeated the soap at Alistair's.

He took his time, lathering and scrubbing a cloth over every micron of skin he could reach. He washed his hair twice because it was too long and Alistair had liked to run his fingers through it… but he wasn't thinking about that. It was getting into his eyes, that's all. Definitely time for a cut, since it was probably looking like Sam's.

Maybe the angels would help him find his co-pilot once he'd done whatever it was he was supposed to do.

That yellow-eyed bastard had kidnapped them using the same van so he knew Sam was probably in Chicago… or just about any town east of there.

He wondered, as he had before, if the Homies had been involved in their kidnapping. If Homeland Security had been compromised, it would explain why they were snatching up all the airheads they could find. One, it would weaken the human's opposition since airheads imbued the sigils in the anchor stones that made the ward walls and kept the Dust mostly off the roads and out of the settlements. Without airheads, demons and other monsters would have free run of the whole fucking continent, maybe even the world. And two, who knew what mixing demon power with airbending would do? Make some kind of super-soldier? Maybe one that could walk _through_ the wards, dissolve them like wet paper. Maybe that's how Meg and her crew had gotten past them, and wouldn't the Feds like to get their hands on _that_ kind of power. However, it was more likely that the demons had nothing to do with the Feds and they wanted Sam for some other reason entirely. He couldn't know.

And it didn't matter. All it meant was Sammy was in danger and Dean needed to find him.

Wash, dress, eat, save the world, find Sammy. No problem. He accomplished two impossible things before breakfast all the time.

He hung his head, letting the water run down his back, and sighed. He was so screwed. 

  
This wasn't fun anymore. He wasn't flying. He was tied down and gagged. His vision was for shit, like watching the world through a kaleidoscope or having a Polaroid picture stop developing half-way through. Colors were too bright, too monotone, too jarring… and they moved.

What the hell had they used on him? Where was he? Who were 'they'? Except… he should know the answer to that one. He sorted through his memories, or tried to; they were all hidden behind a curtain of snow. Like watching a movie on a TV with bad reception, he caught glimpses but couldn't figure out what he was looking at.

There was an ugly chair and a big bed and being surrounded by softness except he was also alone?

There was a little girl's room—pretty in pink—except it wasn't pretty, it was creepy and weird.

There was fighting, no… sparring in a gym. _You're tougher than you look._ He'd said that, to a little blond guy with nice teeth.

Teeth…

Why did the thought of teeth—wide smile—make him angry, make him scared?

He was so frigging _lost._ His memories were junk, a drawing by a five-year old. His body didn't feel like his. It was like being wasted but with bubbly energy instead of alcohol. Worst of all, he didn't feel like himself.

Had they turned him into a monster?

The worry knotted him up, made him feel ill and heart-sick until he almost craved the oblivion Lilith's blood spell gave him.

Where was Dean?

  
Dean left the shower and dressed in the clothes Missouri had left for him. There were shirts and jeans and socks—expected—but also underpants which made him blink. He poked them. They seemed clean, but worn. He was going to leave them, because who wanted second-hand underwear, but then he remembered all the various things that had been on—and in—his ass, and someone else's washed panties was suddenly a step up.

He leaned against the sink, head bent, swallowing desperately to keep the bile down. It wasn't enough. He turned on the water, let it run to practically ice, and splashed in on his face and over his neck until the desire to up-chuck went away.

He looked at himself in the mirror: devil-may-care Dean Winchester, able to take anything life threw at him with a smile and a joke. It's what he had been but that's not what he saw. His awareness of Missouri's bathroom faded and he saw himself on Alistair's screens. His face contorted in pain and climax, beyond his control. Spotlights and colored strobe lights gave it the feel of an old psychedelic movie—Woodstock, with the sex but without the drugs or cool music. He heard himself screaming in horrified, unwilling orgasm. He heard Alistair talking, narrating his humiliation. And he heard the audience enjoying it all. He'd stopped fighting at the end. Stopped fighting so it wouldn't hurt as much, so it would be over faster, so he could go back to the safety— _hah_ —of the barracks.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Devil-may-care Dean Winchester was gone, but who was going to take his place?

There was a thump on the door. "That's enough of that, Dean Winchester," Missouri said. "You're still the man you were a month ago, just dented up some."

Missouri was psychic; how could he have forgotten? She would've heard his thoughts… seen his memories? His breath stopped. Oh shit, oh fuck.

He wanted to crawl away. How could he face her?

"Don't you be worryin' 'bout that," she said firmly and snapped Dean out of his building panic attack. "Jus' remember what you're goin' through now is the same thing you helped Carmen heal from. The feelin's don't change jus' 'cause you're a man."

That… made sense actually.

This was what he'd felt within Carmen when she'd first arrived. He could remember how _ashamed_ she'd been because she'd let something else control her body, do things with it. She'd thought it was her fault, that she should've been able to do more. It hadn't been her fault he'd told her, and he'd believed it, so it followed that what had happened to him hadn't been his fault either. And he could believe it, kind of. But he also thought he should've been able to do more. He was big bad Dean Winchester, one of the best Hunters in the Midwest. He should've been able to fight harder, resist longer…

He dropped his head and thought _real hard:_ 'not my fault, did all I could, not my fault, did all I could' at himself until he could at least look at himself in the mirror and not see something pathetic and weak. It wasn't more than a mental patch, but it would do.

"I'm good now, Missouri," he called to the woman waiting patiently on the other side of the door. "Thanks."

"You ain't good yet," she said perceptively "but you will be. Now come on out and get yourself some decent food." He heard her walk down the hall towards the kitchen. Her step surprisingly light for such a big woman but it suited her, suited who she was.

He slid into the donated clothes—he recognized the T-shirt as being Mike Guenther's—and felt better once he was covered. No boots but that was okay, wouldn't be kicking any asses yet anyway.

Taking one last breath he opened the door and marched to the kitchen.

There was a stranger sitting at Missouri's table. Male, mid-fifties, big, nearly bald, wearing a nice two-piece suit like Dean had seen them wear on TV. "Who are you?" he asked, left hand itching to start a protective sigil.

The guy stood up, tucking his suit coat in neatly. "Hello, Dean. You're looking fit. Much better than the last time we met."

"Do I know you?" Had he been one of Alistair's customers? But that made no sense because neither Missouri nor Cas would let a twisted fuck sit unmolested in her kitchen. Then he saw the hatchet-faced angel, Balthazar, tucked away in the corner looking at Missouri's wall of family photos. Dozens of faces, old and young, serious and happy, that the Mother had taken under her wing. If Balthazar were here that meant the old guy was…

"I'm Zachariah."

Dean shook his head. He looked at Cas—who had also changed into a suit although his was rumpled and the tie was askew. Castiel nodded. "It is he."

"How… what?" Dean stumbled. "You were a _girl._ "

"I told you, that was a vessel." He smiled depreciatingly, "A temporary one, necessary to gain access. This is my usual, um, host."

"What happened to…" Dean didn't know her name.

"Anna?"

Dean nodded; he'd been close when he'd guessed her name.

"She's fine," the angel assured him. "Back with her family. She won't remember much, if it helps."

"I don't know if that's practical or creepy."

"It was brilliant," Balthazar said, turning away from the photos. "Since it was my idea."

Zachariah stilled. His face set into hard lines. "What it is, is irrelevant. We have much more important matters to discuss than my old vessel."

"What about the other angel," Dean asked. "The scary one."

"Uriel?" Balthazar confirmed. "He was killed. It took six and Alistair to bring him down."

"He gave them the time they needed to get out." Castiel's eyes were unchanged.

"Not that he was given a choice." Balthazar's voice was as uninflected as Castiel's but everyone could hear the thread of condemnation.

"Enough," Zachariah glared at the two younger angels impatiently. "Uriel was a good soldier. He always wanted to go down swinging. He sacrificed himself in a good cause, yadda yadda. Can we move forward now?"

"Being an angel, aren't you supposed to reward obedience not mock it?" Missouri asked acerbically. "You should have more respect for your fallen."

Dean could tell that Zachariah didn't know how to respond to the accusation the way he wanted without coming across as even more of an asshole. The angel smoothed his tie and pulled his suit coat into perfect alignment and Dean saw the moment he decided to ignore the whole conversation. Just like that, the angel made both Missouri and his fallen subordinate non-entities. Unimportant to such a higher being and Dean's dislike solidified. Was he really supposed to trust this guy?

He looked at Cas for… he didn't know what. Reassurance? Some kind of guarantee Zachariah was okay, that Dean could trust him? But Castiel wouldn't look at him. The angel kept his gaze on the floor as he stood leaning against the counter with his arms defensively crossed.

"Aren't you hot in that coat?" Dean asked mostly to jar his friend out of his isolation.

"I am not aware of it," Castiel replied. "I brought you your boots." He indicated a pair of worn hikers; Dean's second favorite pair. Dean frowned at them: where the hell had Cas found them?

"Sit, have some stew," Zachariah ordered pleasantly. "Or if you prefer we can get you some hamburgers from that settlement in—" he looked at Castiel who said 'Texas'. "Texas, that's right. You were what, eleven?"

Dean looked at him even as he slid the boots on. "No, that's okay. Stew's good." Again he looked at Castiel because, seriously, was this guy for real? Castiel looked back at him with a limp, useless gaze, so neutral he might as well be a statue. Balthazar was peeking into Missouri's cupboards and humming.

The corroboration he was seeking came from Missouri who put his hand on his shoulder as she placed his food on the table. She glanced at Zachariah then looked at Dean and gave a tiny shake of the head. "Angel radio," she whispered.

To hide his face Dean looked down at the bowl of stew, steaming aromatically, and at the biscuits, hot from the oven. He wasn't actually hungry but something big was coming his way and fuelling up was always a good idea. It would also give him cover while he tried to figure out what the angels wanted. He could be tactful, ease the conversation around to it.

"What do you want?"

Whatever. He sucked at tact.

"We want you to stop Lucifer."

Dean paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. "You said that before."

"It bears repeating," Zachariah smiled as he took the seat beside Dean. "For the last, oh, six hundred years, Lilith and Azazel have been planning to break him out of his prison."

"The Apocalypse, Revelation. The Number of the Beast. I know that part. Cut to the chase."

Zachariah's smile didn't change. "Once Lucifer is out of his box, only the Chosen can stop him. That's you."

This time, the spoonful of stew didn't pause on its path to Dean's mouth. "Dude, you realize you sound like every sword and sorcery plot since Tolkien, right?"

"What can I say," he shrugged easily. "It's your destiny."

"Why don't _you_ stop Lilith and Azazel," he asked before the name registered. "Wait. Lilith? That's like the hen who wouldn't stop bugging Sam."

"Exactly the same."

This time Dean dropped his spoon. It landed in the half-empty bowl with a little splash. "What does she want with Sam?"

"Sam has his part to play."

"He has to open the door," Castiel said blandly. "He's the only one who can." Zachariah whipped his head around and glared at him and Dean was surprised the wall didn't ignite with the force of that look. Castiel's demeanor didn't change. It remained mild and self-effacing.

Dean was halfway out of his chair. "Then we have to find him. Now."

"We can't locate him. And we _have_ looked." Again Zachariah glared at his subordinate. Again, Castiel's return gaze was limp and guileless. Balthazar's shoulders shook and Dean figured the third angel was laughing.

Dean was aware something was going on between the angels but that was submerged under his primary concern. "You don't know where Sam is," Dean repeated in disbelief. "You're fucking angels. Of the Lord. And you can't find one guy?"

"He is hidden to us," Castiel explained.

"But we know where he's going to be," Balthazar added.

"Well then, let's get going. We need to stop them before they do something to Sam."

This time it was Castiel who waved him back. "They already have. In order for him to do his part, he has been fed copious amounts of demon's blood. It will have changed him—physically, mentally… emotionally. He won't be the same Sam you knew."

Oh shit—sorry Missouri—but _fuck._ This was what the lady had warned him about so long ago. That the demonic part of Sam would get triggered and he'd turn into some kind of anti-Christ. But he didn't know for sure that's what had happened. He couldn't know until he'd seen Sam, so until he knew for sure he had no other option, he'd keep trying to save him.

"So what do I have to do to get him out of this?" Dean demanded.

"You can't get him out of this," Zachariah said pleasantly. "The train's left the station." Dean looked at Castiel but once again, the angel looked away. He looked down at his plate, jaw clenched because Zachariah, in either gender, was a smug, self-satisfied dick.

Dean had never ridden a train, but was sure as hell going to catch this one.


	20. Midnight Rider

"This is a bad idea," Bobby had said it before. He'd say it again until that damn stubborn Winchester actually _listened_ to him.

"It is what it is, Singer" was the same flat response. They were traveling through the dark night, the sky a blanket of stars that brought no warmth or comfort. Night driving, in and of itself, was stupid. The forces in the Dust were stronger in the dark, they could hide easier. Yet they, and a dozen or more vehicles filled with hunters, were traveling in convoy through the dark tunnel.

"I think it's a great idea," came the cheery voice from the back seat. "Mostly because it's the only one we've got."

"That's _why_ it's a bad idea," Bobby snapped at the angel. "Why the _hell_ didn't you come talk to us last month or last year? We could've maybe figured something else out. Something that didn't involve the most insane timing I've ever heard of."

"Too many variables. It might never have happened, or it might have happened differently and all my planning would've been a waste." He leaned forward, hand out. "Here, have a chocolate bar. You'll feel better."

Bobby stared at the Servant of God. "You are the most cock-a-maimy angel I've ever heard of."

"That's 'cuz I'm the most fun," Gabriel responded with a grin before biting a huge chunk out of his candy.

"I'm just having a hard time believing you're real."

"He'd better be," John growled from the driver's seat, "or I'm going to devote the rest of my life to learning how to fricassee an angel."

"Oh, that wasn't threatening at all." The angel in question responded easily.

"Then I wasn't doing it right." Bobby wasn't sure how it was possible but John's voice dropped another level.

Gabriel either didn't hear him (doubtful) or didn't care (likely). He cocked his head as if listening to something. "Hah! New arrivals. Didn't I tell you the telegraph thing would work?" Meaning the SOS Gabriel had had them send out that had been passed from station to station and into every township and settlement, so the message became a spreading net catching more and more hunters and drawing them to Wyoming.

It _had_ worked because that's the way the telegraph _always_ worked. Gossiping old biddies manned the telegraph machines, always had. No special angel magic needed.

He was about to point that out when the angel in question leaned forward. "Well, as much as I _adore_ these friendly chats, I must go speak with the lovely Ellen." The angel waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "I do so admire a commanding woman _._ " Then he was gone. Bobby could almost feel the negative pressure from his departure.

"We're relying on that guy for an awful lot," Bobby said. All he got was a grunt and he could sort of understand the response but still…

"He's going to get us to the site through the Dust, he's going to coordinate the hunters working the track _and_ provide the juice for the spellwords." John grunted his agreement and Bobby chewed on his lips.

"It could be a trap," he said again.

"You've said that," John replied sharply. "You've also said how he could be a demon even though you and Ellen made him take every test for possession we know, and some Ash thought up on the spot."

"Yeah, okay. Except this is beyond anything we've ever dealt with. If we're wrong then it's the end of the world."

"You've said that too, and it still doesn't change what it is." Their chance to save Dean and Sam was what John meant.

It was true but it was also a battle against powers of biblical proportions and living through ancient prophecy and changing the course of history and… it was _too much_ to absorb in such a short period of time. Sure, he'd had the _theory_ of it in his head for months, but identifying signs of the Apocalypse was an intellectual exercise. Okay, yes, he'd been driving with John to pull Dean and Sam out of whatever pits they'd been kidnapped into, and he had known demons were involved because of the spell John had put in the car, but that would have been an old-fashioned rescue, and the Impala could've been _wrong_.

But it wasn't anymore; not simple and maybe not even a rescue. Now they were actually taking on angels, demons and maybe the Devil himself. It was something on a whole other plane of stupid.

Bobby sighed. "Remember when all we did was hunt wendigos?" he asked apropos of nothing at all.

It surprised a laugh out of his pilot. John turned to gaze at him, smiling features only half revealed by the dim dashboard lights. "Actually, old man, I don't."

Bobby could feel himself bristling—he wasn't _old_. "Something to look forward to then."

"If you say so," John's voice was teasing. It didn't make Bobby feel better.

"I do say so."

"Okay."

"Alright then."

"Maybe we'll hunt one together after… if your knees can take it."

It was Bobby's turn to growl. "Just shut up and drive." 

  
"Oh, I take it all back. I love the devil," Dean cooed. And he did, because at this moment, the devil was a sexy little brunette with smoky coal eyes and curves in _all_ the right places. Although the angel was hot too. A long-haired blonde with full lips and the most mischievous glint in her eyes. They gyrated to the music: T-Rex's ' _Bang a Gong_ ', which was hard and dirty and perfect.

More than perfect when two pretty ladies were practically kissing each other.

"Now, that's what I call peace on earth." He leaned back on the couch he had all to himself. It had been a long time since he'd had a dream like this and he intended to enjoy it fully.

"Dean." It was Castiel, suddenly standing beside him in his completely inappropriate trench coat and suit. The angel—the _real_ —angel looked around curiously, taking in the disco ball and the sturdy steel pole in the middle of the stage. "This is what you dream of?"

"Umm." Awkward… "I'll shut everything down."

He leaned forward, ready to switch to fishing or something equally inane, but Cas held up a hand. "Let it play. It will cover our conversation."

Dean watched the angel as he sat on the couch beside him. The dancers kept rocking their hips to the beat. "Wow, you're in hard-core snitch mode, aren't you?"

"I don't understand the reference."

Dean waved it off. "Never mind," he said, turning to sit facing his friend. "When did I fall asleep? And how did you get into my dream?"

"You fell asleep after eating—a predictable response of your body to the cessation of stress. And we have a bond, you and I. It gives me certain privileges," Cas said quietly. "I don't have much time before my absence will be detected."

"By who?" Dean was puzzled. Who would care if his own personal guardian-type angel showed up in his dreams? His sexy dreams, he amended. Maybe Heaven had some kind of kink police.

"Zachariah will notice," Castiel informed him calmly. He turned to watch the dancers as they took turns twirling around the pole.

"Your boss."

"He's my superior, yes, but I don't work for him."

Dean frowned. "Cas, Are you a double agent angel?"

Cas looked at him and gave a small sigh. "Do you want the information?"

"Yeah, of course I do." Dean shrugged slightly.

"Some time ago, I was made aware the garrison was not doing all it could to stop Lilith and Azazel and to prevent the Apocalypse thereby." _Thereby_? People actually talked like that?

"You said they were taken by surprise."

"It has been over twenty years since Lilith opened the hole that allowed the… Dust to escape from Hell. Plenty of time to get over it." Castiel's tone was especially dry—his version of humor—and Dean couldn't help his smile of appreciation. "They knew it was imminent because you had been born: seventh son in a line of sons born to a vessel of Michael and a human female."

Dean held up his hand. "Wait, what?"

"Your father has the details. He can explain it to you," Cas was impatient. "The important fact is the archangels knew this was going to happen. They arranged for your mother to draw Azazel's attention so that he would choose one of her children to infect. When your brother, your biological brother died, they quickly arranged for Lilith's tool to deliver her child to your father. That way the conditions for the Apocalypse would be met."

"They planned… all of it?" The dancers disappeared as Dean tried to absorb what Castiel was saying.

"They reacted, swiftly and efficiently, to return your family to a situation close to the one they had planned. Yet for twenty years, they have been 'unable' to close the cracks into Hell from which the Dust enters this world. They have been 'unable' to locate and neutralize either Lilith or Azazel."

"They didn't want to," Dean said. He had a picture suddenly of Marlon Brando as Michael, sitting on a heavenly throne in a dark suit, directing his minions to do unspeakable things. It was kind of funny except where it really, really wasn't.

Castiel looked even more disillusioned. "When asked about it, my superiors' responses were ambiguous at best, disingenuous at worst."

"They lied to you?"

"Angels do not lie," Castiel snapped out automatically. Then he sighed. "But they do obfuscate."

"Obfus-what?" Dean grimaced.

"Obfuscate," Cas repeated. "Essentially, it means to make obscure."

Dean thought back to the frustrating conversation in Missouri's kitchen: the dire warnings about Lucifer and Sam, the vague hints about his role in the upcoming showdown, the dance around when all this was going down. Obfuscate, he thought. He'd have to remember to use it on Sam and watch the guy's eyes bug out.

"The feeling I'm getting is that Zachariah doesn't want me at the showdown," he stated plainly

"He does but at a time of his choosing. When it is too late to stop Lucifer or save Sam, and your only choice will be to agree to Michael's terms."

"Michael? You mean… Michael," he pointed upwards. "That Michael?"

Castiel nodded. "In order for angels to return permanently to Heaven, Earth and Hell must be scoured and cleansed. Without demons to encourage sin and corruption, humans will no longer require our constant attention and we will not be needed here. The only way to exterminate the demons for all time is for Michael to defeat Lucifer in battle. To fight, they require bodies."

"Bodies?" Dean repeated. The way he was repeating Cas' words, he was sounding like a child's learning toy. "Whose bodies do they need exactly?" Then he got it. "Mine and Sam's, right? Mine for Michael and Sam for Lucifer?"

Castiel nodded. "During the battle, it is likely that half the continent will be destroyed, more than half of the world's remaining population will die. It will take millennia to heal. And there is no guarantee Michael will win."

"Nice." Dean said sarcastically.

"Not really, no." Castiel responded without inflection. "Actual Hell on Earth will make your sojourn at Alistair's seem like a run in the park."

Dean swallowed his bile back down. "A walk," he corrected. "Seem like a _walk_ in the park."

"Of course." Castiel accepted the correction with no change of expression.

Dean, hearing the song with barely half his attention, realized it was winding down. He was struck with the idea that once the song was done, so was this private time with Cas and he still didn't know anything. "So what's your plan?" he asked hurriedly.

"It's not my plan."

"Whatever," Dean dismissed the quibble. "What's the plan?"

"Once Lilith reaches the site, she will encourage Sam to break the devil's trap. My compatriot is arranging for assistance in preventing that, or if the line does break, for help in blocking the demons from Sam. We believe he is supposed to kill them as part of the ritual."

Dean made hurry up gestures with his hand. "We've covered this already. What's my role in this?"

"We will get you to the center, where the door is. We will engage Lilith and Azazel but your focus has to be on Sam. If the demons have stripped him of his humanity, he cannot be allowed to kill anything. Any death might be enough to trigger an adverse reaction."

"What am I supposed to do?" Dean demanded as Marc Bolan sang the final chords of the song. "Stop him from killing stuff?" Might be easy maybe not.

"To save Sam you must—"

The rest of the sentence cracked and faded as Dean drifted up out of the dream. He woke slowly, testing his environment as he'd learned to do at Alistair's. The sun was barely a line in the window but Missouri's old cock was crowing the new day. Dean felt like he'd gone ten rounds in the spin cycle but he wasn't feeling the all over dragginess that had plagued him since he'd landed at Alistair's. He felt okay. Maybe he'd be better than okay if he got another meal in him like last night's. He certainly felt ready to take on Lilith.

Yeah, not really, he acknowledged to himself, but he felt like maybe he'd survive long enough to do some good… maybe. He sighed. He would just have to do what he'd do normally. It was all he had so that meant it had to be enough. 

 

  
"Okay, so everyone knows what to do?"

"No, Bobby, we're all here guessing," was Ellen's tart reply. "We've been over this. We've got more than fifty hunters spreading out along the tracks. They'll re-anchor the wards to the churches and draw new protection sigils along the lines. Pamela and Scott are already putting up a masking spell so Lilith and her crew won't be able to tell that we've been busy."

"Oh, hey, there's the Facers," Andy waved at the two little hybrid vans with their homemade emblems as they bounced across the tracks. Ash stood behind the über-airhead since Andy didn't have Ansem backing him up anymore. The tech-nerd was draped in guns and ammo like the Mexican villain in a lurid Western and his eyes kept moving, searching for danger.

Damien and Barnes came over. "We're ready for you, Andy," Damien said at the same time his partner asked "Do you think it'll work?"

All of the hunters assembled had to shrug. How could they know?

"Iron repels magic," Barnes pointed out because it was true, it had always been true

"Yeah, normally" Andy agreed. "But we're not angels with all their—" he waved his hands "secret heavenly knowledge."

"It's kind of exciting, actually" Ash said. "If we can set spellwords into a length of connected metal, instead of individual anchor stones, we could do that along the roads. It'd make it much harder for Dust to break the ward walls."

"If this works out, we might not have to worry about wards ever again," Ellen pointed out.

Ash grunted in surprised realization. "Oh, right."

Andy wrapped himself up tight and bit his cuticle. Damien and Barnes looked at each other and Barnes' Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed his nerves. None of them looked happy about possibly fixing the world and Bobby was surprised until he realized they were worried. Not about the upcoming battle, but about what came after. They were hunters, all of them, and what would they do in a world that didn't need them anymore? Silly worry because the world would always need hunters but they couldn't know that, because unlike Bobby, most of the group were too young to remember anything other than Dust and wards and Bunnies, so it would be like a new world for them. Bobby remembered the world before—before the Storm, before magic, and before the bleak emptiness of looking over miles of abandoned countryside. Even back then there'd been monsters.

Bobby could still picture his wife—young and so, so pretty. She'd been all the magic he'd ever wanted. And then a demon had taken her over and she'd tried to kill him. He hadn't known then what he knew now and he'd been forced to… forced to kill his wonderful Karen.

"Don't worry, boy," Bobby said gruffly, "There'll still be work to do."

It was quiet enough they all heard the faint flutter of large wings.

"Jesus, Cas" said a familiar voice. "A little warning next time?"

"Dean?" John stepped forward.

Bobby grabbed his friend's arm. "Check them first," he said for Dean hadn't arrived alone; a slim, dark-haired man in a trench coat had also appeared.

John glared at him but before he could say anything Andy stepped forward, fingers moving. The airhead threw the sigil at Dean and shouted. " _cha' SoH'egh_!" Show yourself.

A soft blue light shimmered around the pair but their eyes didn't turn black or any other color, and Dust didn't leak from their ears. A shadow of wings appeared behind the stranger and stretched out in the empty air, drawing all the attention and ooh's.

Angel…

Nobody except Bobby seemed to have noticed that Dean had shimmered too or maybe they didn't care.

"Klingon? Seriously?" Gabriel said, appearing next to the airhead. "Andy, I have to say I'm impressed."

"So did I pass?" Dean asked the crowd at large.

"You passed," John Winchester growled, shaking himself loose. He took the few steps he needed to engulf his son in a hug. They all could see how tight the hunter was holding his son, but only a few heard his broken voice say "I'm sorry I left you, son. I didn't want you caught in a crossfire."

"It's okay, Dad," Dean whispered and hugged his father back. "I made it."

Bobby sniffed—because of the pollen in the air—and looked away, blinking rapidly.

"This is all very touching," Gabriel said "but we got bigger concerns." The Winchesters parted slowly. "Cas, bro, did you fill Dean in?"

"I believe I managed to impart the gist," the solemn-faced man replied.

"Cas, you know this guy?"

"This is Gabriel," the one in the trench-coat responded. "My brother."

"The archangel?"

"Yes, the archangel," Ellen confirmed, stepping in to claim her own hug. "Yes, he's really an angel and yes, he's on our side. We've been over this."

"He was the one I told you about," Cas said to the hunter. "My… source."

Dean's mouth kicked up lazily. "So I can call him Deep Throat?"

Gabriel cackled with glee. "Deep Throat, I like that. And now the pleasantries are done, it's time for you to be on your way. This is the stuff you'll need, Winchester." He held a bag up in his left hand. When John took it, he nearly dropped it on the ground and he needed two hands to lift it back up again.

"Uh, where we going?" Dean looked around at the busy group of hunters in confusion.

Cas looked down at the ground sheepishly, "I didn't get that far in my briefing."

Gabriel laid a comforting hand on the somehow younger angel's shoulder. "It's alright," he said. "With Zach around, maybe less was a better idea anyway."

"He _will_ be coming," Cas said seriously.

"I know. Let me handle that dickwad. You've got your own task." He gripped and gave him a little shake. "You remember what you have to do?" Cas nodded once. "Good, good." Gabriel's fist tightened briefly then he let go and stepped back. "You boys better get moving," he said briskly. "You need to be in place before the curtain goes up."

"Front row seats," John agreed.

"I will explain the rest of the plan to Dean as we drive," Cas vowed.

"Then what are you hanging around here for? Go-go-go-go!"

Bobby watched them approach John's truck and wished he were going with them but the decision at the final brainstorming session had been that he would make it too many mortals in the danger zone for Cas to protect and Gabriel couldn't leave the front lines. Besides, they needed their best airheads at the tracks to maintain the wards. So Bobby was stuck here while John and Dean fought for Sam and the whole damn world and Bobby was about to get upset again.

"Good luck storming the castle!" Gabriel's voice rang with the clarity given to God's messenger. It burst through Bobby's attack of maudlinism. Not only Bobby, but every hunter turned to look at the archangel in stunned disbelief.

"What?" Gabriel protested. "That's an awesome movie."

Dean stared at his father, both eyebrows up in amazed humor, before climbing into the truck "You're trusting an angel who throws movie quotes around?"

"He also consumes great quantities of sweets," Cas added helpfully, climbing in behind the hunter.

John looked back at him, brown eyes soft with relief and affection. "Because he said he could save you—both of you."

"Sam?"

"From what Gabriel said—" John shook his head, a small, despairing gesture. "They've managed to turn him. He's not lost, just confused and… changed. If you can't save him, bring him back to himself, to us—" He broke off again, this time to take a steadying breath. "If you can't save him, we'll have to do what his momma said." _…you'll have to kill him._

No. No fucking way. He was _not_ killing Sammy. Vow, promise, or manifestation: Dean didn't care what they called it as long as it came true.

"I'll save him, Dad," Dean stated. "I will."

"I hope so, son. I surely do hope so." His dad turned his head but Dean knew it was to hide emotions. "Do you know what he is? Did your angel friend tell you?"

"He's supposed to be Lucifer's host… person. Angels need hosts just like demons—"

"Except we require permission," Castiel corrected sharply.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, that. So I figure they've been messing with Sam, screwing him over, in an attempt to convince him he's the perfect vessel."

"He _is_ the perfect vessel," John said. "He's a cambion."

"A cambion is half demon and half human, but far more powerful than either," Castiel explained helpfully.

"I know what it is."

"But we didn't know what it meant," John said. "Up 'til now, Sam's power hid him from the demons but that's done. Now they may have turned him into a weapon they're going to use to destroy the world."

"He's not a monster," Dean made the statement with flat certainty.

"He's got demon in him. By now every cell, every atom, is contaminated by it," John said bleakly. "There's no part of Sam that _isn't_ a monster."

"Fuck that!" Dean couldn't stop the rush of anger, didn't even try. "How about the part that brought starving birds to Jim to be fed. Or who cried when we had to shoot that mutt, the one who'd been mauled by a wolf? A couple months ago, a pretty girl smiled at him—and I mean _smiled_ at him—and he freaking blushed!" Dean needed to stop, catch his breath. "How is that monstrous?"

"Dean," John started then stopped. Dean could tell he was picking his words with care. "I know you can heal some truly scary things, but this? I don't think he can ever come back from this."

"Maybe's he's not fully human but that doesn't mean he's a monster," Dean said stubbornly. "Because it's not like being completely human equals being a good guy." A memory scraped through his mind; of being tied up and tortured and raped while an audience of humans had cooed and purred and cheered. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to scrub his skin off. He took a deep breath and shook the memory off instead. "Trust me, Dad, actions are what make monsters, no matter how human you were born."

John was silent as the truck clawed its way along the broken road. "It's the fate of the world, Dean. There's a lot riding on you being right about your brother."

Dean flinched at the reminder his father didn't know about him and Sam. They'd never told him because he would freak at the risk involved. Castiel saved him from having to say anything. "John Winchester, you raised a good man in Dean. It's conceivable you raised a good man in Sam as well. Trust that, if you can't trust the other."

Dean looked away, rubbing his face. "Yeah, Dad," he said to the window, "Trust me too."

A hand reached out and grabbed his nape. Dean tensed in reflex but the grip didn't tighten, didn't cause pain. It merely lay there offering comfort and connection. "I do trust you, Dean."

Dean's heart sped up. It should've made him feel better, but it didn't. His father thought he could do it. Castiel thought he could do. Hell, all the hunters on the railroad lines thought he could do it. Why was he the only one with doubts?


	21. War Pigs

"Do you feel that?" Azazel asked. Sam was able to put a face and a name to the voice now. He wasn't just 'the male' anymore. Yellow eyes, smarmy grin, lying bastard…

"Feel what?"

He knew that voice too: Lilith, the lying hell-bitch. The two of them were standing by the open back doors waiting for something. Sam wished he knew what it was so he could smash it; destroy it somehow, so they couldn't have it. Both because it would ruin their plans and because he wanted them to suffer.

Whatever high he'd been on was wearing off, because Sam knew he was in the back of a van that had been travelling over some very badly maintained roads. He knew they were stopped. He knew he'd been travelling at least a couple days because he had whiskers he could rub on his pillow. Unlike Dean, he'd always liked to be perfectly clean shaven because whisker-burn was a bitch on Dean's sensitive skin. He didn't want to hurt Dean. Never hurt Dean…

He brought his thoughts back to his current situation with difficulty. He may not be stoned anymore but he still had a hard time thinking.

"I dunno," Azazel said quietly, as if he'd scented danger. "Power."

Sam could feel that too. Like the bass notes in some of Dean's music, thrumming through his bones, making his lungs vibrate. It felt like a sigil line cast by giants. He was a giant, or nearly. So much taller than everyone else he knew. Except Dean. And his Dad. He liked being tall, being powerful. He liked floating too…

"We _are_ approaching the world's largest pentagram. It's got sigils and everything. You think it _might_ be what you're sensing?" Lilith said with a sneer Sam didn't have to see. God, he thought, they hated each other almost as much as he hated them. Too bad they didn't kill each other.

"It's gone now." Azazel didn't sound happy.

No, it wasn't, but Sam didn't tell him that. Wouldn't have even if he could get his tongue to work. Which he probably could, but he didn't want to. Not to help them.

"It was probably a natural fluctuation in the land's energy flow. This close to Colt's little decoration, there are bound to be some." Azazel grunted neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

Sam had an idea and he focused on the energy he felt zinging around inside him, all around him, in the air…

He focused once more. He drew a sigil to pull the energy to it and give it purpose, said the spellword to give the power direction, and forced everything out of his body. He'd aimed it at the two evil, lying demons who had imprisoned him and taken Dean. He wanted to explode their hearts or liquefy their brains, or give them extreme sunburn— _anything—_ but it was like trying to fish a hair out of a bowl of water. Like before, when he cast his power at them, it skidded around them, doing no damage to anything as far as he can tell.

"He's trying to zap us again," Azazel growled, _"_ Are you sure the spells will hold?"

"They've been working all this time so I doubt they'll fail now. He can only hurt metal or full-blooded demons. We're neither so relax," she said.

They weren't demons? But their eyes, the way they'd reacted to the exorcism, if they weren't demons, what were they? Bunnies? They were insane, sure, but not rabid. Had to be demons. Sam tried to work it out, but he had to start his thoughts over every time his mind misfired, which was way too often. Good thing he couldn't see the sky or he'd be doing some serious cloud-watching instead of trying to stop whatever they were planning. He wondered if they could see the sky today, or was Dust blocking it out. Dust demons infecting the sky…

He brought his mind back under control and tried to make another sigil.

Lilith hummed a child's nursery rhyme that Sam almost knew. They were waiting, that was obvious. Sam wondered what they were waiting for. Wondered if he might be able to kill them a different way.

"Brady," she chirruped "finally. You made sure they didn't suffer?"

"I was quick, just like you wanted." Sam knew that voice, another liar. He threw together another spellword and the power rolled out of him and towards the betrayer. And then it rolled to the ground, as useless as all the others.

"Nice try, champ," Azazel mocked.

Sam yanked at his bindings but they were sturdy handcuffs, spelled and warded. He couldn't even hit anything.

"Brady, where are the glasses," Lilith demanded.

His sigils weren't working. Maybe he should forget about using sigils and spellwords. Demons didn't use them and he was full of demon blood. Maybe he should put his power out there using only his mind. He had all this power inside him, bubbling in his veins—like a distillery. He should be able to _use_ it…

"The…glasses?"

"Yes, the glasses." Her voice was petulant. "I'm not going to chug from the container like a barbarian. I need a glass."

Azazel snorted. "It's blood, Lilith, and you're going to drink it. Makes it kind of hard to dodge the barbarian label."

"I _know_ it's blood. But I _liked_ Steve," she pouted. "He was fun for a human. He deserves some respect. Plus the container is messy. It'll drip on my dress."

"Oh for…" Sam heard Azazel's impatient huff. "Go get the princess a glass. We _do_ have a schedule, if you remember."

They were nearly finished here. He needed to stop them. Needed to end them…

This time, when he threw his power out of his body, he didn't bother with sigils or spellwords. Instead he thought of the van's tires exploding, its crankshaft breaking or whatever other metal do-hickies lived in the engine rusting away in an instant. It didn't work. The energy ignored the van and raced to a target somewhere out there. Sam heard a cry, then a loud bang, a whoosh, a crash and glass breaking, followed a minute later by an explosion.

"Well. That was impressive," Azazel's voice was reflective. "Brady and the oldest car in the group. And no wussy sigil either."

"I told you," Lilith trilled in happy triumph. "With the right trigger Sam won't have any trouble taking out the tracks then killing sixty-six demons."

Sixty-six? Sam thought. The way he was feeling, six _hundred_ wouldn't be enough to combat his frustration and anger and fear. He nearly laughed out loud. If they wanted him to kill demons, all he would say was bring it. 

  
"How much time do we have?" Dean asked again as he twisted wire into cable. His wrists hurt and it was starting to radiate up his arms, but it wasn't time to swap tasks with his dad yet so he tried to ignore it.

Castiel didn't look up from the consecrated iron rods he was squeezing into thinner, more malleable wire. "They have crossed the tracks but the road is bad, so perhaps an hour."

"They won't see our tracks?"

"I erased them."

Dean nodded, trusting the angel's efficiency. He looked at his father who was placing the cable into the ground in the pattern Gabriel had drawn for them. John clenched his jaw but kept chanting the prayer and laying the cable. They were more than half-way done but an hour wasn't much time to get the complicated symbols right.

"We have sufficient time," Castiel said calmly.

"I hope so." 

 

  
Bobby and Ellen and Bill and Andy and the rest were holding the line. Better than 'holding' since even the most junior, inexperienced hunter could cast a keep-away spell in Latin, and these guys weren't junior or inexperienced. Bobby heard a dozen or more languages as the people fighting alongside him cast exorcism after exorcism, and the bodies coughed up their demons and fell to the ground. There were sparks along the railroad track where the streams got too close to the hastily erected ward wall and were forced back. There were also Dust Bunnies. Shotguns loaded with rock-salt rounds worked pretty good at keeping them away even if the almost constant percussion was starting to make his ears hurt.

He heard—or maybe it was felt—something big go down behind them, in the center of the devil's trap. His eyes closed in involuntary prayer. 'Please let them be alright', followed by 'please let this work', but that prayer was nearly constant so it didn't count.

When he opened his eyes he was facing someone new. One man was tall, with pale eyes and no hair; maybe his age, maybe older. He was wearing a suit and it made him look like one of those mid-level executives Bobby used to watch on Dallas. Right now, the guy was looking a mite unhappy. Bunnies came in to attack him but he flicked a hand and they disappeared—no flare, just 'poof' gone.

Huh. Likely not a demon then.

The other guy was younger, shorter, and skinnier. Stubbled cheeks and a colorful tank top under a bland suit coat that he'd stolen from Don Johnson in Miami Vice. The younger one looked around: at Bobby, at the railroad line, at the hunters lining the tracks and the demons they were fighting, and the bodies that were the result.

Neither one of them said anything so Bobby kept up his spellwords using whatever language felt right, although as usual, he used Japanese the most. His Daddy, who'd been at Pearl Harbor, would've been horrified but Japanese was a commanding language, good for battle casting.

He watched as the older guy reached out a hand and pushed at the wall. The air bent and stretched until it flashed and snapped and pushed the guy's hand back. Pink sparkly light coruscated over his arm as the guy shook away the spell.

"Against angels too?" the skinny one commented. "Someone was planning ahead."

The older one finally looked at Bobby. His eyes were cold and his smile was unimpressed. "You didn't do that on your own."

It wasn't a question so Bobby didn't answer. A full-bodied demon ran at the thin one. At the last moment, the guy raised his hand so the demon ran smack into his palm. " _Affa amiran_ ," he intoned casually, and the Dust poured out of the body, swirling against the ground before flying away.

Definitely not demons. In fact, if Bobby had to guess, he'd think these were Gabriel's 'dick relatives' come to help start the Apocalypse.

"I have to say, I underestimated Castiel," the guy said as he straightened his tie. "I took him for a brainless foot soldier, good at following orders and completely lacking in initiative, but if he taught a bunch of hairless apes how to do this–" a wave of the hand indicated the wall where Streamers and Bunnies were being repelled all along its length. "I'll have to re-examine his last job appraisal."

The statement confirmed that these were angels, but it still wasn't a question so Bobby still didn't say anything. He kept an eye out for sudden attackers but the angels seemed to be keeping most of them away.

The skinny one took a turn poking at the wall, casually kicking the emptied and now dead bodies out of his way in order to get close. "This is wonderful work," he commented.

The older one rolled his eyes in disgust. He turned pale blue eyes on Bobby and his smile shifted to something nasty "You think this will stand? Against _me_?"

Now that _was_ a question. "If we've done it right," Bobby answered stoically.

The smile disappeared.

"Do you know who I am?" His eyes narrowed and Bobby could see the anger breaking through the composed demeanor. "In Heaven I have six wings and four faces, one of which is a lion. What are you? Nothing but a maggot inside a worm's ass."

There was a change in air pressure, the sound of wings fluttering, and Gabriel was standing beside him munching on something, with peanut butter from the smell. "I know who you are. You're the pompous ass-kisser we call Zachariah."

The skinny one didn't bother to pretend he was coughing. "Hello cuz," he said warmly.

"Hallo, Balthazar." Gabriel smiled back.

Bobby eased over a ways, not wanting to get in the middle of a family feud but not wanting to miss it either.

"Gabriel, of course." The guy—Zachariah—gave an unhappy chuckle. "Three millennia, four? No contact, no trace. Last we heard you'd gone pagan. And now you turn up here?"

"What can I say? I got great timing."

"Your timing is abysmal. Do you have any idea what's going on, whose plan you're messing up?" Another bodied demon showed up. This one pointed a gun at Zachariah. With a flick, the angel knocked the gun away and the demon was forced out of the body it was possessing.

"Puh- _leez_ ," Gabriel snorted. "I'd recognize my brothers' fingerprints anywhere." The disembodied demon started to streak away like the last one Zachariah had taken care of but Gabriel looked at it and whistled, and it withered, turned to ash and blew away. Bobby eased a couple more steps to the side.

"He never was subtle," the skinny one commented and earned a fierce glare from Zachariah.

"We've gone to a lot of work to make sure everything is in place for this," the well-dressed angel snarled "and we're going to end it once and for all. If you don't have the guts to do what needs to be done, you should crawl back to your hidey-hole."

"You know I would," Gabriel responded breezily "except you guys went and ruined it for me. There I was, in my own little witness protection plan, sticking it to all the pompous hypocrites—and calling them Michael by the way—when you dicks let Lilith bust open the door causing death and destruction all 'round." He tilted his head and glared at his fellow angel. "Kinda hard to hide when most places have a population of ten."

"There are lots of places you could live." Zachariah sneered. "Africa still worships pagans, which is what you've become."

Gabriel chuckled. "The way you're baiting me, you must still be angling for that promotion, Zachie-boy?"

"It's Zachariah," he said with a defiant lift of his chin.

"He is," the slim one said. "He's hoping he'll be made VP if he pulls this off."

"Balthazar!" The air cracked and the grasses flattened. Nearby demons were knocked over by the wind gust.

"Just speaking the truth, like a good little angel." Balthazar raised his hands. "Stupid thing to hope for, in my opinion. Michael can't promote you any higher because he can't make you an archangel. Only Father can and he's not here."

"Don't you think we have a better chance of finding him if we're back home? _Real_ home, not the half-assed fairy-tale the humans get," Zachariah demanded.

"And what about the people here—what's left of them," Gabriel muttered. "What happens to them?"

Zachariah shrugged nonchalantly, smoothing out his suit. "Well… You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs."

"Or in this case, truckloads of eggs," Bobby muttered. Balthazar grinned at him.

Zachariah pretended he didn't exist. "Once we kill Lucifer there's no reason for us to remain here. We'll be free to go home. Heaven, but for real."

"Your intentions may be good," Gabriel said "but it's not the road to Heaven that's paved with good intentions."

"Oh I think the odds are on our side."

"That's what Hitler thought when he invaded Russia." This time all three angels looked at him and Bobby pretended, very hard, to be studiously occupied.

"That Michael has gone to so much trouble to arrange this little showdown should give you an idea of how serious he is about this. You stand in his way and he'll just mow you down. After all, all he's trying to do is get us back to Heaven, permanently. If you help, I'm sure all your… peccadilloes will be forgiven." Zachariah leaned in intently. "He'll be grateful; you know he will. In fact, he'll reward all of us in unimaginable ways."

Gabriel sneered and lifted his hand. "You know what? I keep hearing this." He opened and closed his hand to make it 'talk'. "But what I want to be hearing is this." He closed his hand and flicked it, and Zachariah disappeared in a burst of static, leaving only the fizz-pop of demons hitting the wards, and the gun-fire and shouting of the hunters fighting along the railroad tracks. There was also thunder.

"Ah. That's much better."

"Huh," Balthazar said. "You realize, when he comes back he's going to be pissed." Gabriel shrugged and popped another candy in his mouth. Balthazar smirked. "I'm going to go kill some demons while we wait for his return."

"Knock yourself out," Gabriel said just before the other angel disappeared.

Angels, Bobby decided, were freaking _nuts_. 

 

  
"So this is Colt's door," Azazel said. He was standing next to a plain stone crypt with a plain stone door, touching its overly ornate lock. "You know, if I'd've been able to find that damn gun, we'd be doing this my way."

"Not once you'd killed your golden boy."

"I _didn't_ kill him," the demon growled. "It was the kid breaking my wards."

"Whatever." Lilith dismissed the old argument with casual superiority.

Sam heard the exchange but from a distance. His skin was vibrating. It was hard to hold a thought. It wasn't the power inside him, with its dark familiarity. No, this was… other. This was in his bones. He'd changed. He'd felt it when they'd crossed into the protected lands, a hum beneath his skin. For some reason it had reminded him of Dean and he'd redoubled his efforts to get free. He'd struggled. He'd cursed. He'd thrown his power out at the world with no thought of control.

And something had broken within him.

"Sam? Sam," Lilith snapped her fingers. He couldn't look away from her white eyes. He knew someone else with white eyes but Pamela wasn't a demon. He didn't think. This one in front of him was a demon. She looked so small and vulnerable but she was hard to kill. If he didn't kill her they would make him do what they wanted. He tried again to explode her brains but his power slid by her taking out a piece of decorative fencing instead.

"Stop that," she said impatiently. "Now, I need you to stretch out."

He lifted his arms pulling himself into the sky. Azazel chuckled derisively as he explored the abandoned graveyard.

"Not _physically_ ," she corrected. "Reach out with your power."

Sam wanted to, felt he'd explode if he didn't do something with all this energy bouncing around inside him, but _she_ wanted him to so he didn't. He stood there and felt himself dissolving.

"If you do this, you might figure out a way to get around the wards I placed on you," she coaxed. "It could nullify our protections."

She was lying. Probably. Most likely, because that's what demons did.

However, if there was a chance he could kill her, kill them both and stop them, then he had to try. He stared at her and pushed his awareness out. His hands twitched, automatically drawing the sigils he would use if this were a normal casting. Except he didn't have words for this and hating Lilith wasn't enough.

"You call that power?" Azazel sneered.

Lilith shushed him. "He just needs to find a focus." Lilith smiled and clapped her hands like the little girl she hadn't been for millennia. "Dean is on the other side of the railroad. You can feel the railroad lines, can't you Sam?"

His eyes finally lifted from the blond creature in front of him to search the cemetery, the fields beyond and the trees beyond those. He could feel the iron surrounding them: iron behind them, iron in front; decorative fencing and statuary. Then there was the iron warded with sigils and magic. Some of the spell work seemed familiar and his mind leapt eagerly to "Dean!"

"That's right," Lilith agreed. "Dean's out there but he can't come in over the railroad lines. If you want to see Dean you'll have to dissolve the wards and break the metal."

His senses snapped tight. His blood pounded. His body heated. He needed to see Dean—Dean would help him kill Lilith and Azazel. Dean would help him not be a monster. The wards were keeping Dean from him?

Azazel had his hands out palms parallel to the ground, moving them like he was dousing water. "Lilith, something's not right."

"Hush, 'Zazel," She didn't move her eyes from Sam. Fingers snapped in his face. "Sam, focus! You can do this."

"Lilith!" Azazel demanded attention. "Something going on."

"Shut up!" she shouted back. "Sam, Dean is just beyond the metal and he's hurt. Bad. If you want to save him, you need to break through the metal."

It wasn't the iron that would be the problem, it was the ward wall. It was the most powerful warding he'd ever felt. It seemed to be in layers: top, middle, bottom. Old, human and… other. It would be tough but Sam was sure he could do it. In fact, it seemed like a great idea. He was so bloated with power that he felt ill with it, heavy and fizzy and off-balance. Blowing up the ward wall would drain that out of him and then he'd be okay again. Maybe. He closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of Lilith and her dead white eyes cheering him on.

The grass around him rippled and flattened. A couple nearby crosses creaked and fell over.

"Good boy, Sam!" Lilith bounced, clapping her hands. "Don't worry, 'Zazel. Sam'll blast through anything to get at his precious Dean."

Yes, Sam thought, he would.

From behind the crypt, seemingly drawn by Sam's desire, Dean popped out in front of them. "Hey Sammy." He moved rapidly away from the crypt, circling to the north and into Sam's field of vision. "You're going to be okay."

"How did he get here?"

Sam blinked… twice. It looked like Dean: jeans, T-shirt, button-up and jacket. Hair was a bit long, skin pale except around the eyes. His partner moved cautiously but he wasn't leaning or favoring one side or the other. He didn't look hurt. Certainly not close to dying like Lilith had said. Demons lie, he told himself. Maybe it was an illusion. "Dean?"

Azazel was flexing and Sam could feel his power, like pins scratching, flow out from him toward the distant lines of iron. It stirred up his own power, made him feel even more unstable. He focused on the image of his partner, anxiously waiting his reply.

"Yeah, Sam. It's me. Sorry it took me so long. Chicago was a real funky town."

It was Dean.

"Trap," Azazel announced. "Angels at the fucking gate!"

Angels, demons. Sam didn't care. "Dean," he begged. He felt like he was wearing his 14-year old self's clothes.

"I'm here Sammy." Dean took a couple careful steps north, not drawing closer, eyes flicking between Sam's escorts but always returning to Sam. "I'm here." Dean moved even more north while Azazel circled to the south, and Sam was in the middle: the pivot point.

"He's not real, Sam." Lilith said desperately. She grabbed his arm but Sam didn't want her touching him and he forced her to let go. "The real Dean is out there! He's hurt!" she shouted from the ground where she'd landed.

"You're hurt?" He tried to walk toward Dean but his limbs were so heavy.

"I was but I'm better. I'm… well, I'm okay. Alive. And you're alive so that's good."

"Isn't that touching," the yellow-eyed bastard sneered. "Pretty impressive, getting away from Alistair."

"Not that difficult. Demons aren't very imaginative. It's all blood, blood, blood, all the time."

"Funny," the demon's smile stayed but his voice took on a cutting edge. "That's all part of your MO, isn't it? Masks all that nasty pain, masks the truth."

"What truth is that? I'm awesome?" the hunter said. "Everybody already knows that."

"No," Lilith cut in. "That you're disposable." She lifted her hand and squeezed it into a fist. It was all theatrics, Sam knew. She didn't need to do anything to cast spells, but it was done so casually that it was all the more menacing.

In front of him, Dean groaned in pain and blood appeared in streaks across his chest. The tendons in his neck stood out in thick cords as he fought against whatever Lilith was doing to him.

"Break the metal rails, Sam," she said. "Or I'll kill him."

She was hurting Dean! He could feel the his heartbeat condensing until his whole body vibrated in time with it. He could feel the heat rise until his insides felt molten. He could feel the power within him like a thick tide filling him to overflowing. Releasing it might kill him but he didn't care as long as Lilith and Azazel died too.

"Good job, Lilith" Sam heard Azazel clap mockingly. "He'll do it for sure now."

"Sam, it's gonna be okay." Dean said before blood filled his mouth and turned the words into a bubbled garble.

"Now," John yelled, "Now, God damn it, _NOW!_ "

The cemetery erupted.

From the corner of his eye, Sam saw a stranger slap his bloody hand on the iron pattern surrounding the crypt that Azazel had admired. His father was there, staring at his son—his _real_ son—with desperate horror.

"NO!" Lilith raised her other hand but it was too late.

The metal flared red-white when it was touched but the light that poured out was ice-blue. It spread along the metal, tracing the symbols, colors changing and dancing like the Northern Lights. It encircled them, capturing them within its power. Power that hit with enough force to rock him on his feet and ripple his clothes. It ran over him, through him, freezing him, scouring him, ripping the muffling layer from his body. He felt a thousand pounds lighter and his mind was clearer than it had been since he'd first discovered how badly he'd been tricked.

Lilith's wards had been stripped away.

" _NO!_ " Her voice was a screech of frustration and fury. She squeezed her fist and Dean screamed through the blood. It poured from his chest and he turned pale as the first snow on fall's dead grass.

It was instinct that had Sam reach out and clench his own fist. His only thought was that he had to stop her. Stop her hurting Dean before she killed him. It was habit that had him yelling " _Stój!"_ but it worked and Lilith froze. " _Uwolnij go"_ he ordered and her hand jumped and the fingers straightened, releasing Dean. Dean groaned, wavered and fell to his knees.

Azazel smiled. "Very impressive, Sammy. Go ahead and kill her. She deserves it, right?"

She did. She totally did.

"Sam. Sam, listen to me." Sam knew that voice too. It was John, the man who'd raised him. He flinched away, ashamed. He couldn't have known what he was raising; a monster he'd let into his family. "Sam, you can't kill her."

"Daddy Winchester. I'm surprised at you, turning up here." Azazel was smiling again. "Don't worry about Sammy there; he's one of ours and he likes killing."

"I know what he is. Doesn't change the fact he's my boy."

What? His fist loosened. He could hear Lilith drag in a rough, coughing breath but he didn't care. Dad… John… Dad. He knew? And he didn't care?

"John, John, John," the demon mocked. "You do know he's the reason all your friends got killed right?"

"You're the reason they got killed," John corrected flatly. "I've been looking for you for a long time."

The demon struck a pose, hand up, smile wide and fake. "You found me."

"And now I'm going to kill you."

"You're going to take me on?" Azazel laughed. "I took you for a lot of things, John, but suicidally reckless wasn't one of them." He flicked his hand and John was flung back, arcing over the cemetery as graceful as a child's thrown baseball.

There was a thunk when he landed and Sam could just see John's limp form crumpled at the base of a granite headstone. "No," he whispered. He stretched out his other hand.

"You really should kill Lilith before you take me on, champ," Azazel said and Sam hesitated. "Start a job; finish the job. Isn't that right?"

It was right.

"You bastard," Lilith gasped. She glared at her erst-while partner with hate filled eyes. If Sam hadn't been restraining her, it was possible she could've ignited him with hate alone.

Azazel laughed in mocking delight. "Lilith, my treacherous pal, it was always going to come down to you or me. You knew that. Kill her, Sam. You know you want to."

He did want to, because she'd hurt Dean. "Dean."

"Sammy. I'm okay."

He didn't sound okay and Sam's hand tightened on the demon he had leashed. Let's see if _she_ liked it.

"Sam! You mustn't." He didn't know that voice. He ignored it, listening instead to the siren song of power and vengeance and the joy of being strong. The push of his power whispering 'use me'.

"Castiel. Well, well, well." Azazel chuckled. "Fancy meeting you here. It's like old home week or something."

"Azazel."

They knew each other? It was puzzling and Sam's attention wavered. Lilith panted.

"Last time I saw you, you were just a pup." Azazel mocked. The new guy didn't respond just moved away from the crypt. "Am I supposed to be scared now the angels have arrived?"

"Lucifer will not be freed."

Angels, Sam thought, Lucifer? Sam's focus slipped even more and he let Lilith fall forward.

She caught herself on her hands and looked up at him. "I'm surprised at you, Sam," she gasped. "You're a freak, a monster. You've got your chance at revenge and you're not gonna bite? That is honestly adorable."

Sam's anger rose once again and Lilith snapped upright. Her mouth opened in a silent scream.

"Your plan has failed," the new guy said to Azazel.

"Not yet it hasn't," Azazel grinned. "The boy wonder over there will kill Lilith—good riddance—and everything after that is inevitable. You _are_ going to kill her, right Sammy?" he tossed over the angel's shoulder.

Sam's hackles rose at the nickname and Lilith flashed inside her borrowed skin.

"You have made an assumption." Castiel said calmly.

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"You assume that only Sam can kill Lilith."

Azazel frowned. He whipped his gaze around to where his female partner was half suspended by Sam's power, pulsing with light. Sam looked too, and he saw John Winchester lift an oddly long revolver to her head and pull the trigger. She flashed and died, but not from Sam's power.

"That's for my family, you demonic bitch."

Wisps of her essence leaked from the hole as she died. Thin streamers of Dust that fell to the ground, despite the light breeze, and burned without scorching.

"Son of a bitch," Azazel cursed softly. The demon pulled and the gun was jerked from John's hand. He looked down at it. "What a pain in the ass this has been. If I could've found this thing even two years ago, things would be a lot different today."

Sam barely heard him. Lilith's sudden death had left nothing for him to grip onto. It made him unbalanced and he actually stumbled. She was gone. He couldn't kill her because she was gone. The realization threw him even more out of balance. There was nothing to use all this power on and he had to use it because he was close to exploding. He shouted his frustration and let go of his spell without regard to where the power would go, what it would do.

It wasn't _fair!_

"It's okay, Sammy. I've got you."


	22. Reap the Wild Wind

The first thing Dean had noticed, when he'd run out from behind the crypt to buy them more time, was how _big_ Sam seemed. Not just physically, although that was always a factor, but as if his spirit, his soul or whatever, needed more space.

The second thing he noticed was Sam's eyes. They weren't solid black but they weren't his normal soft hazel either. Ash grey mixed with bile yellow and bone white. The tinman's step hitched and his mind stuttered—not good—but this was _Sam_ and he couldn't flake out now, not when they were so close to saving him.

"Hey Sammy." he said, letting his souped-up partner know he was close, hoping Sam would recognize him. "You're gonna be okay." Stupid thing to say because he had no fucking idea if they'd be okay but he still had to say it.

He moved away from the crypt, pulling all the attention to him and away from where Cas and his Dad were finishing up the circle.

"Dean?" Despite the power rumbling in his body, Sam's voice sounded so small, so uncertain.

"Yeah, Sam. It's me. Sorry it took me so long. Chicago was a real funky town." Codes they'd worked out years ago. Games they'd played as children. Bonds forged with memories. He could see some of Sam's fear dissolve.

"Trap," the yellow-eyed bastard said. His power, slimy and thick just like on the road, flowed to the outer edges of the pentagram, to Colt's railroad and totally ignored the crypt behind him. Go Team! "Angels at the fucking gate!"

"Dean," Sam begged. He had one hand half lifted, pleading silently to be rescued. Dean wasn't sure he knew he'd done it.

"I'm here Sammy." He said but he couldn't approach, not yet. He looked at Sam, willing him to believe, but kept an eye on the two not-quite-demons to make sure their attention didn't wander. "I'm here."

"He's not real, Sam." Lilith, the lying skank, grabbed Sam's arm and Sam just… twitched and she went flying. She was airborne a good ten seconds before landing hard, right on her butt. Normally Dean would've laughed. This wasn't normal. "I'm real," he said but his voice was drowned out by Lilith's shouted lies.

Sam didn't appear to be listening to her because he took a step toward Dean. A heavy and awkward step, completely lacking Sam's usually grace. "You're hurt?"

How was he supposed to answer that? Physically, Cas had healed everything: he had no sores, no wounds—only the blistered hand-print existed to prove what he'd lived through—but yes, he damn well hurt. In places that the angel couldn't reach. "I was, but I'm better. I'm… well, I'm okay. Alive. And you're alive so that's good." Oh, smooth Dean, he mentally rolled his eyes at himself.

"Isn't that touching," the yellow-eyed bastard sneered. "Pretty impressive, getting away from Alistair."

Now _this_ he knew how to respond to. "Not that difficult," he mocked. "Demons aren't very imaginative. It's all blood, blood, blood, all the time."

"Funny." The demon's smile stayed but his voice took on a cutting edge. "That's all part of your MO, isn't it? Masks all that nasty pain, masks the truth."

Dean didn't even have to think about his response. "What truth is that? That I'm awesome? Everybody already knows that." It was like sparring with Henrikson. He could've done this for hours, would have too, except Lilith interrupted.

"No. That you're disposable." She lifted her hand and squeezed it into a fist.

Dean felt invisible blades rip into his chest, tracing his ribs, parting the flesh. There was steel wool scratching its way through his guts, tearing them to shreds. He couldn't stop the cry that came out of him. She spoke, something threatening to Sam he thought, but Dean wasn't paying attention. His world was pain, the type of pain he thought he'd left behind. It was like Alistair burning his arm but more spread out, all over, intense. He could feel the warm liquid that was his blood, draining from his chest. He couldn't let Sam know because then he'd do something stupid and end them all.

"Sam, it's gonna be okay," he lied. And Sam would know he lied because blood was filling his mouth. Shit…

"Now," his father yelled. "Now, Goddamn it, _NOW!_ "

The cemetery erupted.

He heard Lilith scream but her voice was absorbed by the sound of the symbol coming to life. Ice blue light was blinding even behind closed lids but it was also refreshing and healing and suddenly he could think beyond the pain in his body. The respite didn't last long because moments later it felt like fucking _Truckzilla_ had landed on him, squashing him like a bug, pushing his insides out through his pores. He couldn't help it. he screamed.

Then it stopped.

Falling would be bad, he thought, and fought desperately to remain on his feet. The world was grey.

Ugly color.

They were talking, John and Azazel, posturing at each other, trying to prove who was the toughest. Dean knew he was the toughest because he was still standing… go him. Then he wasn't and falling hurt as much as he'd thought it would.

"Dean," Cas said right in his ear. "Brace yourself."

Two fingers. Burning light through his veins, his muscles, his body, and his wounds were healed. A healing so fast it hurt almost as much as the original injury.

Either way, he still fucking hurt.

"I know what he is. Doesn't change the fact he's my boy," he heard his Dad say. It was probably the best thing he could've said to make Sam feel human. Go Dad.

Even his mental voice sounded weak.

"Go to your brother," Castiel instructed. "Do not let anything distract you."

He remembered the plan—save Sam, save the world—so he nodded and Cas moved away. Dean wished he knew how to save Sam but no one had told him that part of it.

First he had to get back on his feet.

Cas stayed by his side, using the same mojo he'd used at Alistair's to remain unnoticed. "I will try to take out Azazel but he will be difficult. He was a powerful angel and he has not grown any weaker." It was a repeat of what he'd said in the car, but Dean realized, this was the angel's way of working through his nerves.

Azazel's laugh caught his attention. "I took you for a lot of things, John, but suicidally reckless wasn't one of them," he said and then John was flying, spinning. He heard the crunch when his dad hit something, a head stone. He could just see John's limp form crumpled on the ground. "Shit, Dad," he whispered.

Castiel put his hand on Dean's arm. "I will heal your father. Concentrate on reaching your brother."

He nodded—what else could he fucking do?—and muttered healing mantras and motivational cursing at himself until he finally managed to straighten all the way up. Holy _fuck_ it hurt! His ears rang and his vision greyed out at the edges, and only pure Winchester stubbornness kept him on his feet.

"You bastard!" Lilith was shouting at Azazel now. Dean wished she'd shut up. Her voice didn't sound good amplified. Azazel was encouraging Sam to kill her. No wonder she was screeching at him.

Oh shit.

Sam couldn't kill Lilith; couldn't kill anything without starting the whole Apocalyptic mess, ending the world, and more importantly himself, in the process. He needed to get to Sam.

"Dean," Sam called for him. Suddenly, walking was a whole lot easier.

"Sammy. I'm okay." He took a couple steps and then ran into an invisible wall, a gooey, sticky wall that held him in place without hurting him. He looked up and saw Azazel wink at him.

Castiel appeared between Sam and the demon. "Sam! You mustn't," he said but Dean knew it would be useless. Sam didn't know Cas, and in the state he was in, Sam wouldn't trust Cas either.

"Castiel. Well, well, well." Azazel chuckled. "Fancy meeting you here."

The power holding Dean in place slipped and the hunter felt it reach out to grab hold of his friend. Dean took a step. It wasn't glue anymore, just thigh deep water.

"Azazel." Castiel moved through Azazel's hold like it was regular air. The angel was distracting the demon, and the more he was distracted, the easier Dean found it to move.

He wasn't the only one distracted.

Sam's hand dropped, the fingers relaxed and Lilith fell forward onto her hands. Sam wasn't killing her anymore.

Until the bitch went and taunted him.

"I'm surprised at you, Sam," she gasped.

"Sam don't listen to her," he called out but his voice was too weak. He tried to walk faster. "Sam…"

"You're a freak, a monster. You've got your chance at revenge and now you're not gonna bite? That is honestly adorable."

Don't listen to her, Sam, he begged. If he was actually the son of the son of an angel, you'd think they'd've given him the power of telepathy. It would've been freaking useful right about now.

Christ, he was out of shape. His thighs were already burning.

Azazel tossed his gem onto the fire that was Sam. "You _are_ going to kill her, right Sammy?" Sam's hand lifted and tightened and Lilith lit up with internal fireworks.

Shit, shit, shit. "Sam, no!"

"You have made an assumption." Castiel said calmly.

"Oh yeah? What's that?" The demon's voice was challenging.

"You assume that only Sam can kill Lilith."

John stepped into the clearing like some kind of avenging dark angel—which didn't sound half as dramatic now that he knew some angels. His father had the Colt and he shot Lilith in the head and killed her. He killed her before Sam had a chance to finish the job.

"That's for my family, you demonic bitch," he said and Dean cheered silently. So many lives changed for the worse because of her plans. They could all rest easier now.

But it wasn't over.

The yellow-eyed demon pulled the gun from John's hand and looked down at it. "What a pain in the ass this has been. If I could've found this thing even two years ago, things would be a lot different today." All the fallen angel's attention was on the gun and what might have been, and Dean nearly stumbled when the resistance disappeared. Then he nearly got knocked down when Sam's power swept over the graveyard like a mini-tornado.

Sam was making a noise like a wounded animal, all despairing and helpless, and it cut Dean's heart out. He put his hand on Sam's arm.

"It's okay, Sammy. I've got you." 

 

  
Along the railroad tracks, Bobby felt the air compress before the power Sam had released. "Incoming!" he yelled. He could only hope the communication charms Gabriel had told them to make actually worked. They were designed for emergency contact only, recognizing imperatives and not much else, but Bobby figured this qualified. He drew the sigils and tossed the spellwords out, hoping to absorb and convert some of the energy before it hit the ward wall.

Then the power hit, and he couldn't be bothered to even think of the angel. Bobby rocked from the force, losing his breath for a moment. He felt the wall shake. The demons felt it too. They howled and renewed their attack, swarming the areas between hunters where the wards should be weakest. They fizzled and popped into oblivion, or screamed and melted if they had bodies. The flesh dissolved around them leaving only Dust that was pushed against the spell by the press of demons behind them.

It was gruesome, it stank, and Bobby wanted to throw up almost as much as he wanted to be strong.

More unnerving was the sight of Gabriel, starting to sweat, straining to keep the ward wall in place. If the Archangel faltered…

Eventually the power receded, faded, slipped away like fog.

"Holy crap! That guy's got juice," Gabriel said on a shaky breath.

"He was well trained," Bobby replied. He knew as he'd been one of the people training him.

"Is it over?" Andy asked from down the track. The airhead was looking ill, bright color on his cheeks just made the shadows under his eyes seem darker.

Gabriel's gaze went distant. "Sorry, kiddo, not yet."

"Too right it's not over yet," said a voice Bobby could've lived without hearing again. "Trouble in paradise?" Zachariah asked in an oily voice. Angel or not, Bobby decided he would've been more than happy to stab the sanctimonious puff-bag in the face.

"You and I both know this ain't paradise," Gabriel replied.

"And yet you insist on staying here." He smoothed his jacket and pulled his cuffs out of the sleeves. "That would be okay, a peculiarity your rank allowed, except you insist on keeping us here too, and that is unacceptable. So" he smiled blandly at one and all "let's try this again." Then he stepped forward and without hesitating, pushed against the wall. It crackled and Bobby could just see lines of electricity or something radiating from the angel's palm.

"You're cheating," Gabriel said. He stepped closer to the wall and matched his hand to Zachariah's.

"Well, Michael couldn't be here himself so he gave me his proxy." The angel smiled in sly triumph. "I think he'll be happy with how I use it."

Bobby knew this was serious when the archangel tucked his candy away.

The wall turned red between their hands. Lines and shadows appeared on their faces and their bodies glowed faintly blue. The air heated to the point that Bobby started to sweat even at his distance from the showdown. It was a good thing the demons had decided not to get involved in a fight between angels and were avoiding the area. Bobby knew he should shift over to where Dust was still attacking, but he didn't. He felt it was somehow important to stay here and witness this fight. He also threw support spells at the archangel, wishing him strength and power. Maybe it wouldn't help, but maybe it would. Either way, Bobby couldn't just stand here with his thumb up his butt.

The angels made little noises and their hands moved infinitesimally. The smell of burning air made Bobby feel slightly dizzy.

"So Michael couldn't make it?" The arrival of Balthazar's voice preceded that of his body.

Zachariah barely flicked him a glance. "I'm a little busy here."

"Oh I can see that. Busy doing Michael's dirty work… again." The scruffy looking angel sauntered up behind his boss. "Typical of him. To make us do all his fighting."

"Balthazar," Zachariah warned.

"He wouldn't want to get his feathers dirty by coming down with us and mingling with the mortals. How… _plebeian_ that would be." He put his hands on his hips. "Totally beneath him."

"That's not useful."

"Actually, I've been thinking—"

"You? Thinking?" Zachariah actually laughed and Gabriel managed to gain an inch in their silent war.

"I'm thinking that this? The prize fight? It's the start of a new era. Or could be if it's done right."

This time Zachariah barely glanced at him. "You know, you could _help_."

"You're right," Balthazar said, a slow smile spread across his face. In his hand was a long silver blade. "I could." He stepped up behind Zachariah and slid it in, casual and easy. Zachariah didn't make a sound as he stared into Gabriel's eyes. The blue glow that had always surrounded him, first filled him then overflowed, spreading out around his body like a solar flare, except blue. And then he went supernova.

Bobby knew he should look away, but he couldn't. The light was blinding and it was cold, but it was also the most pure thing he'd ever seen. He felt the immanence of God in that light. As if, if he could just look around the corner, he'd see God standing there in all His magnificence and all the truths of the world would be explained. The light expanded, exploded without heat or harm. When Bobby could finally see, all that remained of Zachariah was the shadow of massive wings, burnt into the ground.

"Why?" Gabriel asked his brother.

"Because…" Balthazar shrugged as if it were self-explanatory. "What was there for us if Zachariah succeeded?"

"Heaven?"

Balthazar snorted derisively. "Heaven? Unquestioning obedience to Michael and Father in a world that rarely changes and nothing ever happens. That's what I remember of Heaven."

Gabriel shrugged, conceding the point.

"What you're doing? Stopping the Big Plan? You've done more than rebel. You're tearing up the whole script and burning the pages for all of us. No rules, no destiny. Just utter and complete freedom."

"Is that what you think?" Gabriel said in return. "That I'm doing this for complete freedom?"

Balthazar laughed, low and dirty. "Why else?"

The archangel stared at him, judging, weighing, and wondering. "Because… despite all they do to fuck things up, human beings are worth saving."

Balthazar stared back, eyebrow lifted in silent disbelief.

Gabriel caved. "Okay yeah. And because humans are a lot more fun to be around than a bunch of priggish angels. Happy?"

"Ecstatic." The angel's smile was like watching a naughty movie. He gestured with his thumb to the hordes of demons and clouds of streamers still trying to break down the wall. "I'm going to go have some fun."

"Be careful," Gabriel said unthinking then looked like he'd swallowed a lemon.

Balthazar's laugh was more honest this time. "Don't worry, _mom_. You didn't raise any fool."

Then he was gone and it was quiet.

"Mom?" Bobby asked delicately.

"Shut up." Gabriel tossed a chocolate in his mouth and chomped determinedly.


	23. Sweet Emotion

"It's okay, Sammy. I've got you." He moved closer, thumb rubbing light circles on Sam's wrist. His hand felt scalded from the heat coming off his partner. It had been so long since he'd seen Sam—touched Sam—in anything other than dreams he decided to forget the fucking plan. He needed to be sure he was alright, that he hadn't gone through what Dean had gone through. He didn't appear to have any injuries but the heat coming off Sam was incredible. He practically steamed in the chill autumn air.

"Dean?" Sam's eyes still weren't back to normal, but the yellow and white didn't appear as neon swirls like before. Now they were pastel swirls. On a black background. It was like watching a piece of modern art come alive.

At the outside edge of his awareness he heard his father confront the Yellow-Eyed demon. "I'm leaving here with my boys," John stated. "And you're never going anywhere ever again."

"Sam, it's me. I'm here," he said, keeping his focus on his main concern. He wanted the yellow-eyed bastard dead, sure, but he wasn't willing to sacrifice Sam to achieve it. "I'm here, man."

"It hurts," Sam said, voice wavering. "Too much. Expanding inside me."

"Okay, okay. We can fix it." Dean wasn't sure it was strictly true but he needed to say it. "Sam, look at me."

"You think that little pig-sticker is going to hurt me, John?"

"Maybe not," John said in the distance "but I can try."

"Azazel's not dead. I can kill Azazel and get rid of this stuff inside me." Sam looked at him, colors twisting through the black.

Dean had the idea that would be a Very Bad Thing. "I don't think so, Sam."

"I want to kill him. _Stój_ ," the airhead said calmly; he lifted his hand and Azazel froze. "He needs to pay for what he did." Dean risked a glance at the confrontation going on in the other side of the clearing. He watched as his Dad flew at the yellow-eyed bastard, and he watched as the hand holding the knife stopped as if grabbed by an invisible fist. Castiel had as little success. Whatever Sam was doing was keeping Dad and Cas away from the demon: they couldn't touch him.

"He'll pay. He will," he assured his partner. "Dad'll take care of it. He's got the right for what the bastard did to Mom and Jim, right?" He moved closer, careful to keep his motion smooth and steady. "And Castiel is an angel so it's fair that he's in at the end 'cause Azazel used to be one, before he hooked up with Lucifer. Not a bad force to take care of one yellow-eyed pissant, right?"

"Are you saying I can't do it? That I can't kill him?" Sam's voice deepened, and he squeezed his power into Azazel who writhed and glowed within the body he lived in. "That maybe I don't want to because I'm one of them now?"

Dean hastened to reassure him. "I'm not saying you're not capable of killing him, or that you don't want to. I'm just saying you can't kill them _here_. Location's the problem, not your resolve." He forced a laugh. "This place, it's got lots of stuff going on.

"The crypt."

At least Sam was still thinking behind all the weird demon stuff.

"Yeah the crypt. It's a doorway to Hell, or something." He rubbed soothing circles on his partner's wrist, automatically thinking of the incantation he used when giving a massage: _saepimur, protegimur._ The power flowed through him, smooth and gentle and too damn slow. "You kill anything here," he warned "and the door opens."

"They…" Sam paused, breathing hard, and his eyes narrowed. "They _tricked_ me. Made me into a monster. Made me think it was okay. Made me think _you_ were okay." He squeezed his hand and Dean heard the pained groan the demon made.

Dean reached out and ran the tips of his fingers over Sam's outstretched hand—he fucking loved Sam's hands, always had—and gently pulled it away from Azazel and up to his lips. "You're not a monster, and I am okay. So are you," he said, although Dean could feel something was wrong: touching Sam was like hugging sandpaper. He ran his hands over Sam's body, trying to touch skin wherever possible so he could get a clearer reading of what was going on in there.

"They hurt you." Sam's free hand cupped his cheek. The spiky energy running through Sam scraped at Dean.

"Yeah, but I'm better now." Sam growled. "They hurt you too," Dean pointed out hastily.

They heard a gunshot and turned to where John stood over Azazel's empty husk. Dean heard him whisper three names: Mary, Jim and Caleb. Payback sought and achieved. It was over. He'd almost forgotten the battle going on over there and now it was over. The quest that had consumed his family for more than twenty years was done.

Holy shit…

"He killed Azazel," Sam stated flatly.

Dean looked at him in question.

"Where is my vengeance?" Sam demanded. His eyes were swirling, colors vivid. "What do I get to kill?"

"You don't need to kill anything to beat them, Sammy. You just need to be here, with me." He felt his throat tighten. "It's been too fucking long, Sam. Too long."

Slowly the scary tightness left Sam's muscles and Dean no longer thought the airhead was going to vibrate into little bits. Even his face relaxed into something that looked like the Sam Dean remembered. The colors were still in his eyes but they moved at half-speed and the background color switched from black to grey.

This was an improvement?

While he stared, while his mind whirled, Sam lifted a hand to his cheek, "How could I have believed you'd let me go off by myself?"

Dean swallowed back the bile that rose in his mouth.

"Maybe because you're 22 and a grown-up?" He risked a smile and was rewarded when the swirling slowed even more. He concentrated on his spellwords. The power they contained barely made it past Sam's skin, shredded by the other powers within him. He placed his hands at the base of Sam's neck. If he could get the airhead's energy flowing more easily there, maybe it would flow smoother everywhere.

Sam turned his head, rubbing his scalp into Dean's firm hands just like a cat. He even made a sound that was like a purr… by a tiger. But it helped. Sam now felt like a loofah instead of sandpaper.

"They made me forget," Sam said, voice growly and vibrating.

"Jedi mind tricks?" Dean teased but gently, worried any strong emotion would undo everything they'd achieved so far.

"It's not funny," Sam glared. His hand was now cupping Dean's neck, holding him close. "I should've been looking for you."

"I should've been escaping," Dean countered. "But I couldn't, and you couldn't, and that's just the way it is. Can I give you a massage?" he asked before Sam could argue some more.

Sam's lips quirked ferally and he spread out his arms, offering himself. Dean let his hands skim the surface of Sam, trying to get a feel for what was going on. Sam was like an engine using the wrong motor oil: it would work for a while but left too long the parts would be permanently damaged. Dean swallowed again. He wasn't sure he could fix this, not in time.

Quickly, he translated his standard healing chant into Enochian to give it more power. _"Brints-t-busd geh. Bransg geh_ ," he said as he pressed. He hoped it would have more power because Sam was so dense with demon blood that it was going to take a jackhammer to loosen him up. " _Affa geh p-mir. Etharzi geh_." Enochian was a weird language, missing lots of bits that made English so flexible, but airbending were more about intent anyway and he _intended_ to heal Sam.

" _Affa geh p-faboan. Paradi geh_ ," he chanted, pushing the power into Sam's cells, remembering the way his partner had felt before and should feel now. Picturing it, wanting Sam's body to be that way again.

Sam moaned and Dean hoped it was from pleasure, not pain. The airhead's temperature certainly hadn't dropped even standing doing nothing. He needed to get Sam naked, he decided, or at least get his shirts off but he didn't want to take the time to undress him, worried that his spells would lose ground.

He didn't even notice when his Dad joined them until John spoke. "Anything I can do to help?" he asked

Aside from not giving me a heart attack, Dean thought. "Help me get him undressed."

John pulled Sam's sleeves down and off and all Sam did was stand and breathe. "Jeezus!" John muttered. Sam flinched and his eyes darkened. "He's fucking burning up."

"I know," Dean said. "I think it's from the blood. It pushed all this energy into him and if I can't drain it out… I don't know what'll happen."

"His power will explode like a fission bomb, destroying us and the devil's trap. The demons will enter and attack. Sam will kill them and Lilith's plan will reach fruition despite our efforts."

Dean was used to the way Cas spouted the most horrifying shit in the calmest possible voice, but John was staring at the angel in shock. "Can't you do anything?" the Winchester patriarch asked.

Dean looked up from where he was running his fingers over Sam's legs. He wanted to know Cas' answer, hoped it would be 'why, yes, I'll just touch him with my magic fingers and everything will be A-Okay.' However, he wasn't surprised when Cas shook his head, looking genuinely sad. "My power would be an anathema to him right now."

The tinman nodded once. "That's why you brought me along. Angel blood but not an angel."

"Yes. The demons are still attacking at the railroad tracks. The wall is holding, but it will not hold indefinitely. Once Sam can no longer kill them with his borrowed power then it will not matter if it falls."

John had Sam down to his briefs and there was definitely steam rising from his skin, yet he didn't look flushed. Dean noted worriedly.

"I can only think of two ways to use up that much power quickly," Dean said "and I don't want you guys here for either of them." John looked up from where he was folding Sam's clothes.

"He means fighting or fornication," Cas clarified.

Again, John looked at the angel in horror. "I know what he means."

"I believe he will choose fornication," Castiel continued placidly, "as fighting is too closely linked with war and destruction."

"I didn't need to hear that," John said urgently. Cas opened his mouth but John held up his hand. "I may have a good idea what's going to happen but I don't need to _know_ that about my sons. I still think they're six."

Cas blinked. "That is illogical."

"It was easier when they were six."

It made Dean smile. "Either way," he said, "I don't need you guys here. Go to the wall; do what you can there to help."

"You sure?" his father asked shortly. Dean nodded. John looked at him, looked into him, before he nodded acceptance.

"Look after your brother," he instructed. Then John was gathering up the angel and herding him back to the truck, and Dean let his awareness of them fade. There was only him and Sam in the middle of a big-ass cemetery that contained a Hell's Gate and a shit load of restless spirits.

"He knows? About us?" Sam hadn't moved his gaze from Dean's face.

"Yeah, apparently Bobby told him." He could feel where the energy was stuck inside Sam. Liver and heart, of course, and just under the skin. No wonder the guy felt bloated.

"I wanted to kill them."

"I know." He ran his hands over Sam's skin. It felt smoother than he remembered, like it had been babied on soft sheets and with gentle soaps. "It's okay." He pushed his awareness in deeper and that's when he found it; the ugly wrongness that felt like Dust made thick with oil and sewage. He needed to get rid of it but there was a fucking lot of it embedded in his partner. " _Bransg gea._ _Paradi gea."_

"I need to kill something, Dean." Sam's voice was calm. "If I don't kill something, I think I'm going to explode."

"You won't explode Sam. I've got you. _Affa gea p-faboan_. _Affa gea p-mir._ "

It was like dragging his fingers through wet sand, wet hot sand, that clumped and clung and tried to scrape off the top five layers of skin. He pulled it up over Sam's shoulders then down his arms until he could squeeze it out of his fingertips. He looked. It was like blowing house dust off a long abandoned table, a momentary cloud that swirled thick for an instant before dissipating in the breeze.

Except this cloud smelled like sulfur and oozed malevolence.

Sam sighed. This time when he spoke his voice was heavy and hopeless. "I don't want to kill you, Dean."

Sam was serious about killing something, Dean realized—serious about the threat he represented.

"You know," he said "there are a shitload of restless spirits in this cemetery, Sam." He dragged more of the evil clogging goo out of Sam's system, but there was so much. He couldn't get rid of it fast enough, and he could sense what Sam was worried about. Whatever they'd stuffed into Sam, all that extra energy, didn't belong there. Sam didn't need it and it needed to be used.

"Probably from having a Hell's Gate right in the middle of them."

Geek, Dean thought fondly. "Probably. If you reduced their bones to dust, they might be able to rest." He felt like he was trying to climb an active volcano: his hands were scraped raw and burning but he couldn't let go. " _Etharzi gea. Ulcinin gea."_

"I can do that."

Dean felt the small explosions in the ground. It felt like the same kind of power demons threw around. It went with the solid eyes, he guessed, but it still made him a little sick. At least it was helping. The gritty tar coating all of Sam's insides was starting to loosen. Instead of 20W50, he now felt like 10W30—old and needing to be changed, but still an improvement. " _Brints-t-busd gea._ "

Except Sam's blood was getting hotter…

"Say it with me, Sam," Dean ordered. " _Brints-t-busd gea."_

"Enochian's hard."

"Come on, man, you can do it," he encouraged. "Truth and glory surround us: _Brints-t-busd gea."_

Sam's throat worked, noises emerged that sounded like a cat ejecting a hair ball but it was, indeed, Dean's Enochian healing chant. It worked. The oily stuff burst out of Sam's skin and fell, flaming, to the ground, and Dean could reach in deeper than before. The little puffs of power went on in the graveyard causing the ground to dip and headstones to tilt as if drunk and each one jarred inside Sam, loosening it, like shaking the dirt out of the roots of a plant—dirt that was trying to hold on like a fucking leech, that is.

He ran his hands and his awareness over and through the delicate tissues dragging out the gunk. "We are protected; we are pure. _Bransg gea. Paradi gea._ " His words were echoed by Sam, growly and gruff, like their dad the morning after.

"Here's a blanket."

Dean jumped. "Fuck, Dad!" He looked at his father who'd snuck up on them like a freaking ninja… John Winchester was all colors of red and his eyes couldn't settle on anything. He held out a dark patchwork quilt that one of Pastor Jim's flock had made for them. It was huge and thick and perfect for two big men to have sex on.

"It's for… in case you get cold."

"Not for fornication?" Dean asked innocently and watched another shade of red climb into his father's cheeks.

"I'm not talking about that. So don't mention it. Seriously, not ever." He dropped it on the ground then stalked back to his gigantic truck, muttering about kids and puberty and grey hairs.

Dean didn't even bother trying to hide his smile. Not much flustered the ex-Marine, Vietnam Vet turned hunter. They could use this for years.

"Magic cock saves the world?" Sam's voice was slightly amused underneath the seductive purr. He lifted his hand to cup Dean's cheek and Dean pressed into it.

"Fuck yeah, Sam. We can do this shit." He looked at Sam's eyes. They were still dark but it was lightening. "We can do this," he said and smiled. "C'mon. 'We are empty of poison'."

Sam stared at him intently. " _Affa gea p-faboan_."

_That_ caused a huge expulsion of Dust from within the large hunter and Dean hastily repeated the protective spellwords so it couldn't worm its way back inside either of them. Sam gasped and shook. He was starting to breathe easier, if a bit fast, and Dean was encouraged.

He'd given into hope too soon.

He felt it, when it happened, a smooth darkness, enticing and familiar, rose within his partner. This is what Sam had always had inside him, but a thousand, thousand times more powerful. "Dean…" The ugly, thick demon power was swallowed by this new-old power. Dean couldn't grab onto it anymore.

"Shit!"

Sam's eyes went solid white. "Dean," he repeated half pleading.

Dean panicked. "Anything, Sam. Anything you need.

Sam lifted his hands to Dean's face, imprisoning it even though Dean wasn't fighting him, then he was being kissed. No, not merely kissed, but eaten. Sharp teeth gathered his lower lip, scraping and at his lips. Then Sam bit down.

"Ow! Fuck." Dean pulled back, tasting the copper in his mouth.

"Whatever I need," Sam reminded him, licking a line up his jaw. "Whatever I want," Sam whispered in his ear before taking the lobe between his teeth and nibbling on it too.

"I didn't know you wanted to be a cannibal."

"You shouldn't taste so good," Sam countered before he latched on to the cut he'd made in Dean's lip. He sucked at it, licking up the blood, shivering as he swallowed and Dean felt the heat recede.

Shit.

Dean understood what was going on in Sam's body, even if Sam didn't. Sam needed to replace the demon blood… with his.

He pulled away, already unbuttoning his shirt. "How much do you need?"

"More than you have to give," Sam said despairingly.

Dean thought of Alistair and his shows. "I dunno, man. The human body has a lot." He pulled the T-shirt over his head, dipping down to grab the knife from his boot. "Where?" he asked, blade hovering over his left arm.

"Neck."

Dean snorted. "You always go for the neck, you freakin' vampire." He found the vein with his left hand and lifted the blade. Took a deep breath, and made the cut. "Good enough?" It didn't feel bad; not too deep.

Sam growled and dove at him. Dean winced at the force Sam was using, maybe he even made a little sound, but mostly he kept his hands moving over the parts of Sam he could reach, flushing out this bit, repairing that, until Sam started feeling like _Sam_ again under all the power. The smooth darkness Dean could sense permeating everything didn't frighten Dean; he'd always known it was there, only now it was uncontained. It was as much a part of his Sam as the dimples and the big geek brain. What worried Dean was the way that power had consumed the gritty, ugly, demon blood. Would that stuff permanently taint the man he knew?

He couldn't worry about it too much though, because the sensation of Sam drinking from him, taking him in like that, was having an effect much further south. He knew he was making sounds beyond his Enochian spellwords, and he didn't care. Sam needed this, needed _him_. He hadn't been lying when he'd offered Sam anything, everything. He'd let the Sasquatch drain him dry if that's what it took to save him.

His erection was rising in his pants, untouched and pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He leaned forward and pressed into Sam's hip, only to find Sam in the same situation. "Sam," he groaned. "Fuck."

Sam lifted his head. "I can feel you inside me, Dean. Can you feel it?"

As soon as Sam said it, Dean could feel the echoes of himself inside his partner. It was mind-blowingly amazing and his penis hardened into painful in an instant.

"Is this what Carmen feels, having a piece of you inside her?"

"Pretty sure she doesn't get erections, man." It would've sounded better if Dean hadn't been panting and practically fucking _climbing_ the guy, trying to find some relief.

"I want to be inside you." Sam's mouth was right by his ear. Dean could feel the puffs of his breath on the sensitive cartilage. "I want to fill you the way no one else can."

Oh shit.

Ice replaced heat. Nerves stalled desire.

"Um, about that," Dean started but he didn't know how to complete the sentence. 'I've been—" deep fucking breath. He couldn't say he'd been raped off and on by dozens of guys and demons over the last three weeks and none of them used a condom.

Luckily he didn't have to say anything more. Sam shifted his hand, cupping Dean's ass cheek protectively. "They hurt you." It wasn't a question.

One breath. Two. "Yeah. A lot."

Sam's hand massaged as if to take away the memories. "If we survive this, can I kill _them?_ " Sam asked gently, softly, a totally inappropriate tone for the question. It surprised a laugh out of Dean.

"Yeah," Dean answered finally. "That would be good."

And, for the first time since he'd seen Sam in the graveyard, the airhead smiled, a slow, satisfied smile that brought out his dimples and made him seem bashful. " _Affa gea p-faboan_ , Dean: we are free of poison."

A cloud of Dust puffed out around the hunter, thick enough to choke on, but that's not what took Dean's breath away.

Sam's eyes were hazel.

Okay, so they still shone; the gold was a little too bright and the green was a little more glowy than was natural, but it was better than they had been.

"Sammy," Dean stopped, filled to incoherency with gratitude, and yes, fuck it, love. His partner was coming back. " _Zir-monons geh_."

" 'My heart is yours'?" Sam chuckled. "You are _such_ a girl," he teased.

"Shut _up_."

"You gonna be a girl for me?"

Hands: bruising clawing. Hips: thrusting pounding. Humiliation and helplessness.

One breath. Two.

"Anything you need."

He might as well have thrown all his clothes off considering how Sam reacted to the simple statement. He latched onto Dean's mouth, open and hungry, and his tongue slid, hot and urgent, over Dean's lips, demanding entrance. Dean met him, sliding his own tongue into his partner's mouth, exploring, renewing… remembering. Desperate sounds came out of Sam, or maybe he made them. It didn't matter. They were here, they were alive, and they had this moment. God, Dean hoped he didn't fuck it up.

"Shirt," he gasped breaking away. "Need my shirts off."

"Hmm," Sam hummed as he latched onto Dean's neck once again.

"Come on, dude. I want to feel you." It wasn't begging, not really.

"I like it when you beg," Sam purred, "but you're right—you need to be naked." He lifted his mouth to Dean's ear. "Makes it a lot easier to get my cock inside you."

Dean shivered. This time it was only half in fear.

With Sam's help, it only took twice as long as it should have to get undressed since his partner insisted on teasing his skin as each piece was revealed, and when the blistered handprint was exposed, he stopped. "What's this?" Sam's voice was as merciless as anything Dean had ever heard from their dad. "Where's your tattoo?"

"It got burned off," Dean said, not looking at it because then he'd remember. "At Alistair's."

Strong fingers traced the edges of the scar. "Whose hand?"

"Cas'." Sam growled jealously and his eyes faded to grey. "He had to build it up from the bone," Dean hurried to explain.

The finger paused. "The bone?"

Screams—his, and the smell of burning flesh.

One breath. Two. He still couldn't look at it.

"Yeah."

Sam leaned down, and placed gentle kisses on each finger's raised shadow and then in the center of the palm. "I'll have to thank him." Dean could barely feel Sam's touch on the scar; the flesh was too damaged. He _could_ feel, with great clarity, the first touch of the hot iron that Alistair used. The demon had threatened to use it other places…

" _Wy jesteście bezpieczni_ ," Sam crooned. " _Wy jesteście spokojni_." He moved his caress to Dean's collarbone, licking and nibbling its hard surface and it was only then that Dean realized he was trembling—full on body shakes. "It's okay."

It wasn't, and was never going to be, but he'd survived and they'd get through this.

"I know."

Sam lifted his head and gave him a rueful smile. "Killed the moment, didn't I?"

His eyes were hazel once again, still too bright but…

Dean wrapped his hand—his left hand, which he could use, thanks to an angel—around Sam's nape and pulled his face to his. "We can get it back," he said and kissed him.

It started gentle, sweet and filled with concern, but it wasn't long before Sam was exploring hungrily, demanding more. His hands, an arousing mix of soft skin and rough callus, ran over Dean's exposed torso bringing his skin to nerve-tingling life. Sam was always aggressive when he topped, but this went beyond what Dean had experienced with him before. His kisses and his touches were hard and fast, but somehow they weren't out of control the way Sam usually was. He was pulling the response from Dean, making _Dean_ lose control, but remaining in command of himself and the situation. Dean was rubbing himself against Sam's pelvis, feeling his hard length through his jeans, making stupid little mewling sounds, and the giant ass was frigging _laughing_ at him. It reminded Dean of how he acted with women and it was, for some reason, freaking hot.

"Come _on_ , man." Okay, so that was begging.

"Got the moment back for you," Sam bragged. Dean would've hit him for it, but Sam palmed him, pressing a firm line up his erection. "You know," Sam said seriously, "I can probably make you scream as well."

"Just in frustration, you fuck."

Sam dipped his head towards Dean's neck. "Payback's a bitch," he chuckled then he latched onto the cut. His tongue worked it open, and it stung, but it also felt good, little sparkles on Dean's nerves that never quite edged into pain. And every mouthful Sam took in just heightened Dean's awareness that he was far, far inside his partner's body—deeper than sex could take him.

Not that he wanted to stop with the sex thing…

He was wrapped around the airhead, muttering spellwords when he wasn't groaning threats and curses, He had one hand high up on Sam's powerful back and one grabbing his firm ass—Pamela had nothing on him for appreciating the firmness of it! He felt the muscles shift and slide under his hands, and he could feel how things inside Sam were smoothing out. There was still too much power in the guy but he no longer reminded Dean of a badly tuned engine in need of an oil change and a new block. More and more, Sam felt like the Impala: just waiting for the command to give it everything.

He was still way too hot though, and that was worrisome.

"Sam…"

His partner moaned incoherently.

"Sam," Dean repeated, giving him a little shake. "We need to get on with the main course, man. Before you, uh… before you're well-done instead of medium-rare."

Sam lifted his head to give him an incredulous look. "You're comparing me to a steak?" Dean shrugged. Sam laughed, big, open—inviting the whole world to join in.

It was Sam's old laugh and Dean scowled to hide his tight throat. "Yeah, well, you're the one who likes things bloody." It was thoughtless and reflex and as soon as he'd said it Dean wished he could take it back. It erased Sam's smile like it hadn't existed. Freaking landmines…

He coughed once. "Besides I'm the one who's supposed to be hot."

Sam's slow smile came back. "You think you got ugly somehow?"

"If I was that hot, you'd be fucking me already."

Sam's eyes narrowed to slits. "Pants. Off. Now," he ordered in between biting Dean's lips, his ear, his shoulder. Dean fumbled with the button, distracted by Sam's hand at the back of his jeans. He nearly couldn't operate the zipper when the hand went lower. Then he was shoving them down—borrowed underpants and all—so that he could have those strong hands everywhere on his body.

Sam obliged.

First thing he did was wrap long fingers around Dean's cock and just hold it, a slight rub nothing much. "I can feel your pulse."

"Not fucking surprised." Dean tried to lift himself into the small prison but Sam easily followed the movement, keeping it shallow and on the surface.

"You know you still have your boots on."

Dean stared at him in confused dismay because, really, what the hell?

"Means your pants are still on," Sam explained in a low caressing tone. "Means I can't spread you out the way I want to."

"You have to let go of me then."

"Do I?"

It turned out that yes, he did, but Sam took total advantage of Dean leaning over to undo his laces by nipping and rubbing along his spine. He draped himself over the smaller man and rubbed along Dean's cleft.

"You have to take your shorts off too, you know," Dean reminded him as he nearly face-planted again. There was a swift kiss on his nape then Sam stepped away.

Shit, he wanted to see Sam get naked but he wasn't finished with his boots yet. He twisted until he could watch Sam quickly pull down his briefs. The airhead didn't try to be seductive, just yanked them down and kicked them away, but to Dean he still looked like sex on the hoof. Even if he hadn't had freaky demon powers, the hunter could totally understand why the forces of Hell would want to get their hands on him.

"You're not finished yet, Dean."

Dean dragged his mouth off the ground and swallowed down the embarrassing drool, and quickly finished getting the rest of his clothes off. It was more complicated than it should have been because his hands were trembling. From the excitement, the anticipation, because he was so aroused, he told himself, but he couldn't completely hide from the fact he was also nervous. This wasn't Alistair's and Sam wouldn't hurt him, but he could hurt Sam by freezing up, by freaking out. By running screaming from him in gibbering terror.

Not going to happen, he told himself again.

"It's alright," Sam said as he rubbed Dean's back. "First time after's bound to be awkward." He'd spread out the blanket on the patchy, overgrown grass, and he steered Dean over to it. Sam had put their clothing under the blanket, to provide cushioning or insulation or something.

Dean choked out a laugh. "Awkward? Yeah, that, uh, just about covers it." Sam grinned back at him. "Good to see how all that reading gave you such an impressive vocabulary."

Sam's face turned serious. "The thing is, Dean. I think I'm running out of time, so we can't actually afford for you to have nerves… or to run in gibbering terror."

Dean blinked in shock. "Dude… are you reading my mind?"

"Yeah," Sam said sheepishly. "Yeah, I think I am. Your blood; I think it gave us a connection, or something."

"Okay… that's not creepy at all."

Sam shifted onto all fours and slinked, cat-like, over to where Dean sat on the thick quilt before rearing back onto his heels. He loomed over his partner, reminding Dean that, yes indeed, he was a few inches shorter than the younger man. "I like it."

"Hopefully it wears off. Only need one Missouri in my life." Dean was stalling. He knew he was stalling but Sam seemed so frickin' _huge_ like this.

"You're stalling." Sam nipped at Dean's lips before diving in for a deeper taste. He pulled back. "Do you want to be on your back or your knees," he asked brutally.

"Back." Dean's response was instinctive. "I could never… I mean, they never let me _see_ … except on screen, sometimes—"

Sam's kiss cut off his incoherent explanation. "Perfect. I want to see you cum, Dean. I want to see your face. I want to see your belly as you pant and moan. I want to see your big fat cock as you explode." He steadily and inexorably, pushed Dean over onto the quilt. There was a breeze, and it was nearly November, but Dean didn't feel at all cold. Sam was too hot and he was quickly joining him.

"Jesus, Sam," he cursed unthinking, only realizing what he'd said when Sam flinched and his eyes flashed black. "Too bad Dad didn't drop off any lube," he covered quickly.

He was rewarded by Sam's horrified look. "Don't even… not in the same sentence."

Dean's nerves dissolved because under everything—the demon's blood, the cambion thing, even being Lucifer's vessel—it was still his Sam. He wrapped his arms around his partner and pulled him down on top of him. "Don't worry about it, Sammy. I'll survive." We both will, he thought. He spread his legs wide, willingly putting on the show he'd been forced to give so many times before, and threw down the challenge: "Show me what you got, bitch."

It was a statement filled with bravado and challenge but Sam knew it was, in many ways, hollow. Dean trusted him, he could sense that, but he could also sense the seething hive of memories and fears that the hunter, his partner, lover, brother, was keeping contained. For what Azazel and Lilith had let happen to Dean, he wanted to resurrect them and kill them again, but slower and with more pain. And then he was going to go out and find Alistair, and he was going to explode his every atom—one at a time.

And thinking about revenge didn't help his control any, which wasn't so good to begin with.

What Dean had done, the massage and the chants, had helped clear out the hate-filled muzziness he'd been living in since they left Lilith's. Taking in Dean's blood, with its hint of Heaven, had done more, but nothing had diminished the reservoir of power contained within his body. He felt like he could level cities with a thought and was afraid he might if this all stayed inside him for much longer.

The huge devil's trap that surrounded them would require only a moment of his attention to be obliterated. He could pull up and shred the heavy metal rails in a breath. He could turn the ties into toothpicks in a blink. Fell the trees. Kill the birds. Evaporate the beings lining the tracks, fighting each other. So easy. So smooth. So satisfying.

He had to force himself to remember that it was a bad idea. Bobby was on the line close to Andy Gallagher. He recognized Ash and Pamela… and there was Ellen. Mike Guenther was up from Lawrence and Scott was down from Illinois. Rufus had showed from wherever he holed up when he wasn't hunting. The man he knew as his father was… there. And the being that had saved Dean—the angel—was beside him. There were more hunters holding the line, some he knew well, some just in passing. If he let go now—no focus, no target, just mindless power—he'd kill them all.

Starting with the man underneath him.

Unacceptable.

"I'll show you what I've got, lame-ass," he said, knowing the insult would distract the other man from his fears, because as much as he wanted to go slow and enjoy every moment of having Dean bottom for him, he couldn't. He needed… needed too much, and quickly.

He reached out greedy hands, which shook slightly, and touched, squeezed, and worked Dean back to full hardness. He gathered up pre-cum, his and Dean's, and worked a finger into Dean's hole. He added spit to get in two, stretching out the muscle. It wasn't difficult and that let Sam know far more than Dean would ever tell him about what he'd gone through. Dean didn't have sex with other guys, period. And he bottomed for Sam only rarely. For him to be so loose…

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing back the dark, trying to remember that he'd been raised human.

It was hard.

There was a small graveyard in the western point of the devil's trap. It had a couple restless spirits. Sam disintegrated all the bones he could find. He disintegrated the skeletons in the graveyard to the south-east as well, just because it felt good to have that kind of power.

Who would want to be a ninja when they could be Godzilla?

And that thought just proved he needed to do this because Godzilla destroyed cities and Sam was trying to avoid doing that.

"I've got you, Dean," he murmured when, in truth, Dean had him. Dean was the main reason he hadn't let it all go. Dean was keeping him human.

He leaned forward, dragging Dean's legs up, supporting them on his forearms. He nibbled on Dean's freckled chest and sucked on his hard little nipples, and Dean was writhing and moaning like a porn star except better because it was real. Even so, as soon as Sam breeched him, sliding just his head into the spit-slick passage, Dean froze, clamping down on his erection, trying to stop the intrusion.

Sam groaned. It felt good but not enough. He needed to have Dean all around him.

He let his awareness sift through his partner's surface thoughts. It wasn't pretty. Dean was thinking of toys used for torture not play. Too hard, too long, too large, too many…

Sam took a breath to control his instinctive, possessive rage—Dean was _his_ —and tried to use his mind to go deeper into Dean's body the way Dean could go into his. Maybe, with all the blood he'd taken from his partner, maybe this time it would work. He ran his hands over his lover's body and crooned. " _Wy jesteście bezpieczni_." You are safe." _Wy jesteście kochani_." You are loved. It was easier to say the words in Polish. " _Wy jesteście spokojni_." You are calm.

As soon as he said it, he could feel Dean relax. His strong fingers stopped trying to crush Sam's forearms and stroked little circles instead.

It worked on Sam as well, or maybe it was Dean's release of tension that calmed his. Either way, Sam felt the urgency to use his power fade a little. It was no longer a pulsing rhythm in his body, just a steady thrum. Ramble On instead of Black Dog. He still didn't waste any time burying the rest of his erection as far as it could go. This time Dean breathed through it and even—when Sam managed to find the right spot—gave a little moan of pleasure.

"That's it, Dean," he encouraged. "Give it up for me." He started small, movements rather than thrusts, enough to massage Dean's prostate until he was back to full hardness and Sam could dip his head and watch the thick, pearly pre-cum well and drip. It reminded him of the Rubys and their thick, red blood and the taste of it, the rush…

His power roiled, slick darkness versus spiked acid and he wanted to feel that again. Instead he bent to the almost healed bite on Dean's neck, bruises just starting to show.

Dean tucked his head, "Dude, no. It hurts."

"A little pain—"

"I don't want to have painful sex with you. Not right now." Not unless you want me to freak the fuck out, was unsaid but understood. "Maybe someplace else?"

Fuck, yeah, Sam thought. Inner thigh would be fan-fucking-tastic but it would have to wait because no way he was pulling out now, not when he could feel the energy within him smooth out, returning to a kind of anticipatory waiting.

"Some other time." And if his voice was a predatory growl, neither one of them minded.

He couldn't have more blood—not from where he wanted—but Sam could use other things he'd learned from the Rubys. He altered the motion of his hips, adding a little roll. Dean bucked and one leg came up around his waist. "Did you like that?"

He didn't need Dean's helpless nod to tell him: he could feel it. Dean was close, and he was surprised. With groans and nips and low-voiced encouragement, it didn't take long for Sam to have his partner coming up to meet him, gripping him, trying to keep him buried deep.

"Sam." Dean's voice trembled on the verge of too much.

"It's okay, man. Let it go," Sam purred. "Let me see you cum on my cock."

"Shit, man!" Dean shouted and did as he'd been told. He flexed, and jerked out a moan, while thick streams of cum flew up between them.

Sam growled in triumph. _He'd_ done that—no demon blood needed. He watched greedily as Dean's eyes closed and the tinman swallowed convulsively, enjoying the aftershocks caused by Sam still rocking inside him, riding him through the orgasm.

"It's my turn now," Sam said as he nibbled on Dean's ear.

"Fuck yeah."

He wanted it. He could feel it growing. This was a different kind of power. Sex magic, like Dean used on the Impala to build her wards, to tie her to them and their needs. It was primal and deep.

…and it pulled the smooth darkness along with it until he vibrated. "Dean!"

It was a warning. It was a plea.

"I can't…"

"Demons at the wall. Lots of them," Dean panted. The tinman was sweating—his hair was flat and dark with moisture—and Sam knew it was because of him, because of the power he was trying to contain. "Don't hurt the humans or the angels."

"Okay, okay. God… you feel so good!" He was thrusting harder. He had the sense that if he hadn't wrapped his arms around Dean's shoulders, he would've pushed him halfway across the clearing. He was probably hurting Dean but he couldn't stop. A different imperative had him now.

"Watch out for the other übers," Dean warned. "They have demon blood like you… except not as much."

Did he care? A little maybe. Because Dean cared, but right now, at this moment, all he wanted to do was climax. Feel his body explode into mind-numbing pleasure. He didn't even care much that the energy built up inside him was going to do the same thing. He just wanted to let go.

Dean's grip on his arms tightened. Enough that it would've been painful if Sam hadn't been so lost inside his driving need for release. "You can do it, Sam."

Sam looked at him blankly. He barely noticed the sweat run into his eye, just blinked until the sting passed.

"Kill the demons. Take out as many of those evil sons of bitches as you can."

"I can do that," Sam repeated.

"That's right. You can do it." Dean arched underneath him. "Fuck, Sam. Come for me, baby."

He could do that. In fact, he wanted to do that. So he did.

It felt like he was collapsing into a little tiny spark, except that it was massive at the same time. A black hole. All his sensations centered around the feel of his erection inside Dean. The hot slick slide that accepted him and welcomed him and felt like home. He lifted his torso on arms suddenly made of iron. It forced his hips forward, locking him in. And he shouted because it was too much, too too much. He couldn't…

He wasn't…

He had no control…

"Shit, Sam, don't spazz out on me now." Dean was running his hands over his body but Sam could barely feel it. Too far away, too small. "Kill the demons, Sam. Leave the humans."

He reached out, his awareness moving in waves that matched the pulsing of his climax. The power flowed out across the bare landscape, through the trees and over the grass until he reached the iron rails that encircled them. Lilith had thought he would have to ruin them to let his power escape the devil's trap, but he didn't. Iron wouldn't stop him, not now. He ignored it, wanting to remain safe and alone with Dean—his Dean returned from God knew where after being tortured by demons. Not these demons but close enough.

He could feel them, demon souls exploding in human bodies, and it made him shake. A distant part of his mind felt Dean chanting Enochian spellwords at him. " _Bransg geh. Ugegi geh_." You are protected. You are strong. Yet it was the simple "Fuck, Sammy" that sounded the most like prayer.

All the way around, fifty miles or more in every direction and then farther. He disintegrated the infected humans, leaving only a trace of yellow and the faint stench of sulfur. He pulled the intelligence and coherence from streamers of Dust, returning them to ordinary dust. He popped the demons out of existence, uncaring if their human shells were alive or dead. All the evil, tainted things that howled to get in, all of them he killed but it was still not enough. He could make the air burn—clear out the detritus of thousands of years of greed and envy and the uncaring thoughtlessness of humans. He could return the world to a pure state…

There would be no one to share it with.

He could touch the minds of millions. Better than killing them all, he could influence their thoughts, teach them a better way to live. They would worship him as a god and he would hold their lives dear. He would try to be better at it than the one they had. He would clear out the evil and the intolerant. Teach them to believe as he believed…

And be no better than the worst of all humanities dictators.

Realizing it wasn't enough. The power within him demanded tribute, something to make it worth holding back. The training of a lifetime—serve and protect—fought against Sam's newly released power and his mind and body were the battle grounds. The grasses around them curled and browned in the heat coming off of him. He didn't want to be a monster and yet, and yet… using the power felt abso-fucking-lutely marvelous. It was how he was meant to be.

But not what he believed…

He curled over Dean, practically motionless, and wondered what would give first: him or the world?

" _Affa gea p-faboan. Affa gea p-mir_." It was Dean, taking his pleasure, taking his power, and scouring him with it. Scouring them both, cleaning them of false memories and pain and despair. Rebuilding what had been. " _Paradi gea_." Dean was reaching into him, finding the parts he remembered, the pieces they shared, and reminding them where they belonged, which was here. With him.

Dean wasn't giving up on him.

It was like a switch. There was no fear that he would blow up the world, all that was gone. The power dissipated back into the atmosphere and Sam's awareness slid back into his own skin. There was only this moment, here, with Dean. Always with Dean.

He didn't want to be a god.

He wanted to be Dean's airhead co-pilot and drive around in the Impala hunting things and saving people.

"Sam?"

Listening to mullet rock and the open road…

"Sam."

Sam smiled because he could read the questions behind the simple statement: What about the demons? What about blowing up? What the hell do you think you're doing? What's going on?

"Kid," he quoted "the next time I say 'Let's go someplace like Bolivia', let's go someplace like Bolivia."

Dean laughed in startled amusement but he got it. He understood. They were good now. "What the fuck, man. No way am I Robert Redford." He took a handful of Sam's hair and shook his head gently. "You're the one with the loosely tousled locks."

Sam smirked. "Nothing about them being doomed?"

"Shit no. I totally believe Butch was seen in Utah in 1930."

"Nevada," Sam corrected automatically. It was an old argument and the cadence of it allowed him to relax that last little bit. He lowered himself carefully, placing his weight to the side so that Dean could continue breathing. The movement dislodged Sam's now flaccid penis and the airhead couldn't but grunt at the loss of connection. Dean, however, flinched—just a twitch of his muscles but Sam saw it. He ran his thumb over Dean's eyebrows and down to his cheeks. "What now, Butch?"

"I dunno." Dean's voice was lazy. Dean went back to stroking over him, checking him for damage. Sam could almost feel it: like running a magnet close to iron filings. "We could actually _go_ to Bolivia. If that's what you wanted."

It made Sam laugh. "Hell no. But you did promise me Chicago." Dean stiffened. Sam kept his thumb moving in soothing strokes. "To see the museums and stuff."

Dean relaxed and a small smile flittered across his lips. "I did, didn't I."

"You also said I could kill Alistair."

"You remember that." Dean was still.

"Um-hmm." He ran his thumb over Dean's lips, full and sculpted and so very inviting. "I want to kill him."

He could see Dean thinking about it, worrying about him, about what this meant, what it could mean to be faced with those memories. He waited. He wanted Dean's agreement but he didn't need it. If he really wanted to, he could probably kill the bastard from here but it might be good for both of them to go to Chicago and face Alistair: Dean to see it end and Sam… to find out if he could still pass for human.

"You know it's going to get out," he murmured and Dean looked at him in horror. "Not what Alistair did to you," Sam reassured his partner. "What we did here today. I killed a lot of demons and shit. And there were honest-to-God angels on the battlefield. The Homies are going to be even more insistent about recruiting me… maybe even you as well. Finally."

"Great."

Sam smiled at Dean's tone of disgust. "Then there'll be some hunters who think we're too dangerous to live."

"Us? I didn't do anything."

"Any hunter with any brains is going to know that he'll have to take both of us out, because if he lets one of us live, the other will hunt him down and dismember him."

"I didn't do anything," Dean repeated.

"Nobody's going to believe it though."

"Shit." Dean closed his eyes in disgust. It was true.

"On the plus side," Sam continued, voice light. "We'll be invited to have more sex with women."

Dean laughed out loud. "Sammy. You horn dog."

Sam smiled back but didn't defend himself. It didn't matter. There'd be Invitations— _legitimate_ Invitations—and kids at some point as the inevitable result. At least for Dean but Sam knew that any kid of Dean's would be his kid too. He'd learn to live with it.

There'd be demon fighting and monster hunting. There'd be injuries and aches and laughter and joy. And through it all there'd be him and Dean.

" _My jesteśmy bezpieczni_ ," he said softly. We are safe.

He finally believed it.

  _Sam's eyes still weren't back to normal, but the yellow and white didn't appear as neon swirls like before._


	24. End Notes

**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:**

**The Art:**

As everyone knows, big bangs come with art. My story was claimed by the talented **heard_the_owl** who joined me in my geek examination of ‘how do sigils work?’ and agreed that shirtless pretties were absolutely necessary. (She also makes a kick-ass cheerleader.)

**Betas:**

I had two betas who offered their time and suggestions to make me sound good. To my wonderful RL friend **Alecto Nyx** : _arigatou_. Next round of sushi is on me. Big thanks also to **saintsghost** for helping sooth my last minute nerves and to my artist, **heard_the_owl** , who pushed me to review my comma usage ‘just one more time’. She was right.

The final word must go to the mods and coordinators of the SPN J2 Big Bang: **wendy** and **thehighwaywoman**. An amazing amount of effort and organization goes into making this happen (so smoothly) so tributes and adulation to them both.  


**RESEARCH**

Acknowledgements go out to Google for maps and travel times. Catholic prayers (in Latin and English) were found at fisheaters.com. For rough translations I used Google, poltran.com, vdict.com, translation-guide.com, mrKlingon.org, and the empire site on angelfire.com. However, for better translations, nothing beats real people. Thanks to **creepylicious** (and her sister) for help with the Polish phrases, and to **cleflink** who corrected my Latin. To **LB** (and her family) thanks for correcting my Vietnamese.

Thanks as always to the contributors and editors of Wikipedia and the Super-Wiki, so the quotes and facts I used were accurate before I started playing with them. Also **mortar** provided emergency research help. She translated my almost questions (‘you know, the guy who had that thing?’) and gave me real answers (‘oh yeah. It was episode…’). All remaining errors (or acts of wilful contrariness) are my responsibility.  


**Language**

Enochian

_Affa amiran_ |  Empty yourselves  
---|---  
_Affa gea p-faboan_ |  We are empty/free of poison   
_Affa geh p-faboan_ |  You are empty/free of poison   
_Affa gea p-mir_ |  We are empty of torment   
_Affa geh p-mir_ |  You are empty of torment   
_Bransg_ |  Protect   
_Bransg zir_ |  I am protected   
_Bransg gea_ |  We are protected   
_Bransg geh_ |  You are protected   
_Bransg-ils t-gea_ |  You protect us   
_Brints-t-busd gea_ |  We are truth & glory   
_Brints-t-busd geh_ |  You are truth & glory   
_Brints-t-busd zir_ |  I am truth & glory   
_Etharzi gea_ |  We are peace   
_Etharzi geh_ |  You are peace   
_Caosgi-ils zacam_ |  I banish you   
_Paradi gea_ |  We are pure   
_Paradi geh_ |  You are pure   
_Quasb-ils zir_ |  I can destroy you   
_Ugegi zir_ |  I am strong   
_Ugegi gea_ |  We are strong   
_Ugegi-ils zir_ |  I am stronger than you   
_Ugegi-am geh_ |  You are not strong   
_Ulcinin gea_ |  We are happy   
_Zacar-am_ |  Stop! Freeze!   
_Zamran_ |  Show yourself(s)   
_Zir-monons geh_ |  My heart is yours   
_Zorge_ |  Stand down   
_geh_ |  You (familiar)  
_ils_ |  Thee (formal)   
_–am_ |  Not   
_–t-_ |  And  
_p-_ |  Of  
  
Latin

_Exorcizamus te_ |  We exorcise you   
---|---  
_Mea culpa_ |  It’s my fault   
_Me paenitet_ |  I’m very, very sorry  
_Noli movere_ |  Don’t move   
_Non timebo mala_ |  I will fear no evil   
_Potestas inferni me confirma_ |  Power of Hell, strengthen/support me!   
_Salvus es_ |  You are safe   
Spellwords for a private conversation:  
_Obscurum_ |  (this conversation is) hidden  
_Tacitum_ |  (this conversation is) silent   
_Caecum_ |  (this conversation is) unseen   
Spellwords for healing chant:   
_Saepimur_ |  Faith surrounds us   
_Protegimur_ |  We are protected   
_Vales_ |  You are well   
_Valemus_ |  We are well   
_Salvi sumus_ |  We are unharmed   
_Secures es_ |  You are safe   
  
Polish

_Blokady i osłony_ |  Block and protect   
---|---  
_Chronić nasze dusze_ |  Protect our souls   
_Chronić moje ciało_ |  Protect my body  
_Ja jestem bezpieczny_ |  I am safe (masculine)   
_Ja jestem bezpieczna_ |  I am safe (feminine)   
_My jesteśmy bezpieczni_ |  We are safe   
_Nie dotykaj mnie_ |  Don't touch me   
_Nie masz siły_ |  You have no power   
_Ochrony naszego ciała_ |  Protect our bodies   
_Powrót do piekła_ |  Return to Hell   
_Stój!_ |  Stop!   
_Umrzyj_ |  Die!   
_Uwolnij go_ |  Release him   
_Wy jesteście bezpieczni_ |  You are safe   
_Wy jesteście kochani_ |  You are loved   
_Wy jesteście spokojni_ |  You are calm   
_Z mocą boga_ |  With the power of god   
_Życzę wam prędkości_ |  I wish you speed   
_Życzę wam siły_ |  I wish you strength  
  
Vietnamese

_Anh biết tôi_ |  You know me (I have authority)   
---|---  
_Cho tôi vào_ |  Let me in (Obey my commands)   
_Chúng ta được an toàn_ |  We are safe (protected, cannot be harmed)   
_Đứng lại !_ |  Stand down (put down your guard)   
_Không phải con người_ |  [it is] not human   
_Dean / Sam o dau_ |  Where is Dean / Sam ?   
_Ai làm bạn đau_ |  Who hurt you?   
_Cái gì làm tổn thương bạn_ |  What hurt you?   
_Quỷ_ |  Demons   
_Vâng_ |  Yes   
_Mắt vàng_ |  Yellow Eyes   
  
**Background**

**Winchester family line**

1816 | John Winchester  | Settler, righteous man, vessel   
---|---|---  
1  | 1838  | Luke Winchester  | Cowboy, lawman, hunter; nephilim   
2  | 1856  | Mark Winchester  | Cowboy, rancher, lawman   
3  | 1874  | Matthew Winchester  | Spanish American war in Cuba; cowboy   
4  | 1897  | James Winchester  | WWI vet, Texas Ranger   
5  | 1923  | Michael Winchester  | WWII vet; gambler, mechanic   
6  | 1954  | John Winchester  | Vietnam vet (medic); mechanic   
7  | 1979  | Dean Winchester  | Our hero (one of them)   
  
**Slang Terms**

Dust Bunnies  | Croats, demons and anything else that comes through the Wall   
---|---  
Dust Devil/Dust Stream  | A single incorporeal demon   
Dust  | Incorporeal demons, also called Streamers   
Dust Storm  | Large Dust storm   
The Storm  | The 1983 catastrophe   
Homies  | Agents for the Homeland Security Agency, which took over from the FBI and most of the US Federal security agencies   
G-man  | A very old slang for FBI agent; short for Government man   
SOP  | Acronym for Standard Operating Procedure   
  
**The Number of the Beast and Other Signs of Geekness**

According to _The Book of General Ignorance_ [Faber  & Faber: 2006] and backed up elsewhere, several sources translate the number in Revelation as 616. That said, it was a happy accident that 616 years before the events in my story, one of the worst Popes ever, Pope Boniface IX, came to power in Rome (and yes, he was proclaimed on 2 November).

Saint Martin did say that all sorts of bad things happen around the number 56. I couldn’t believe it when I discovered 56 x 11 = 616, because I’d just realized that all the bad things in the Winchesters’ lives occur in 11-year cycles. 

Happy accidents, or destinies prophesied? Whatever they were, I took shameless advantage of them.

Pastor Jim gave Sam a St. Hubert medallion. St Hubert is indeed the patron saint of hunters.  


**PRAYERS**

**Guardian Angel prayer**

_Angele Dei, qui custos es mei, Me tibi commissum pietate superna; Hodie, Hac nocte illumina, custodi, rege, et guberna. Amen._ |  Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom His love commits me here, ever this night be at my side, to light and guard, to rule and guide. Amen.   
---|---  
  
**Exorcism**

_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu + Christi, eradicare et effugare a Dei Ecclesia, ab animabus ad imaginem Dei conditis ac pretioso divini Agni sanguine redemptis +_ |  We exorcise you, every impure spirit, every satanic power, every incursion of the infernal adversary, every legion, every congregation and diabolical sect, in the name of and in the power of Our Lord Jesus + Christ, rooted up and be persecuted by the Church of God, from the souls of the image of God and redeemed by the precious redeemed by the blood of the Lamb of God +.  
  
---|---  
_Non ultra audeas, serpens callidissime, decipere humanum genus, Dei Ecclesiam persequi, ac Dei electos excutere et cribrare sicut triticum +_ |  Shall no more dare, cunning serpent, to deceive the human race, persecute the Church of God, and God's elect and sift them as wheat +   
_Imperat tibi Deus altissimus + , cui in magna tua superbia te similem haberi adhuc præsumis; qui omnes homines vult salvos fieri et ad agnitionem veritaris venire._ |  The Most High God commands you, +, to whom, in your great insolence, you still presume to be like; who wants all men to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth. 


End file.
